


Little Motels

by BoMarlowe



Series: Little Motels [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bartender Dean, Biphobia, Depression, Drug Addiction, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mechanic Dean, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence, Overdosing, Panic Attacks, Professor Castiel, Road Trips, Slow Build, Suicide Attempt, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-06-25
Packaged: 2018-01-07 07:35:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 32
Words: 238,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1117240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BoMarlowe/pseuds/BoMarlowe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After John's death, Dean must travel to California to find his estranged brother and deliver the bad news. He takes Castiel with him, despite the newness of their relationship, and finds himself falling in love while staying in a series of little motels. What he discovers after arriving at Stanford is enough to destroy what's left of him, but Dean isn't willing to give up what they have together that easily.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fic I have ever written, so if you like what you read, let me know!  
> This story is told from Dean's perspective, and he has a lot of depression and self-esteem issues.  
> This was such a huge learning experience. I've never written any kind of story before so it took me a while to find my groove and learn the characters. I made plenty of mistakes in this fic and there are some things I would change if I could go back and re-write it, but I'm not going to change it simply because it's my first story and I'm pretty sentimental about it. If you read it, I really hope you enjoy the ride, just keep in mind that I'm a very new writer and still have much to learn. Thank you to everyone who has left comments or kudos. I appreciate it so, so much.
> 
> Also, there are now time-stamps that continue the story. Go check out Out To Drift if you want to read more :)

The food left out on the table had been untouched, Dean notices, still wrapped in foil but cold now from hours of sitting out. He had hoped his father would eat if Dean cooked a real meal - his dad's favorite, steak with scalloped potatoes and diced carrots - but now he thinks his father never even made it into the kitchen. Dean had even added brown sugar and bits of orange peel into the carrots like his mom used to do, despite not being a fan of brown sugar himself.

The thought he hates to think creeps into his head with too much ease, reminding him that there might be other reasons the food was never touched. Dean was only gone for about four hours, picking up a short extra shift at Bobby's garage, but he knows better than to doubt his dad's ability to drink himself into a dangerous stupor in that amount of time.

Dean slips out of his jacket and hangs it up beside his dad's coat on the wall rack, trying not to think about the fact that there's an empty hook now where a third jacket used to belong.

There's a muffled babbling of noises coming from the living room, which Dean suspects came from the television, since there haven't been any guests in his home aside from Bobby for nearly a year. It was just him and his dad now, even if sometimes it felt like they were crowded by ghosts of the past, or if the smell of whiskey and vodka was so strong and tangible it was practically a roommate.

He bites back the panic building in his throat as he makes his way toward the noise, a silent prayer sitting heavy on his tongue for his dad to be passed out drunk, not dead.

As expected, Dean finds his dad recumbent on his old recliner, cradling a half empty bottle of Wild Turkey against his chest. The living room is dark, contrasted by the static light of the television in the corner of the room, highlighting the bags beneath his dad's eyes and reflecting off the sheen of his dark, unwashed hair. It's no surprise that he's wearing the same stained sweats and ratty tee that he's been in all week.

The panic doesn't ebb just yet, because Dean can't see the steady rise and fall of his dad's lungs through the dark, nor can he hear his father's usual heavy breathing. Dean carefully crosses the room until he's standing beside his dad, pressing two fingers against his dad's neck just below the jaw, feeling for a pulse.

 _Well_ , Dean thinks, _another small victory for what's left of the Winchesters_. His father lives to drink another day.

He pries the open bottle of bourbon from his dad's clammy grip, setting it down beside the recliner, making a mental note not to knock it over. It smells enough like a bar here already, and Dean doesn't want to see how well their carpet could absorb more of the potent amber liquid. He bends over, remembering to lift with his legs and not his back, and hoists his dad up over his shoulder. It shouldn't be as easy as it is, carrying his dad like an errant child to his room, but he's done it so many times that Dean doesn't quite think of it as a burden anymore. It's more of a regular chore, these days.

Dean thinks momentarily how much easier it gets each week to lift his dad, but then corrects himself - the task itself isn't easier, but the load he's carrying is lighter. John Winchester, former buff mechanic and Marine, is merely a slender shadow of those prime athletic years. Whenever Dean had pictured old drunk men in his head, they were usually portly with distended beer bellies and flushed faces, much like what he's used to seeing at the bar when he goes on the weekends. John defies that stereotype heroically with sickly pale skin, loose and clinging to weakened bones. This must be what happens to alcoholics once they cross the line of no return, when eating food seems like a wasteful task that interrupts one's ability to get drunk.

They make it into his dad's bedroom, small enough to be considered a walk-in closet but still useable. Dean gently drops him on the twin mattress, then drapes a sheet over him in the hopes it will be enough to keep him warm. They used to have blankets, like every normal American, but his dad's drinking problem turned out to not be so friendly on their bedding. Vomit and alcohol are difficult things to wash out of fabric, Dean learned, and they never quite smelled the same afterward even if he could get the stains out.

John grumbles something that Dean doesn't understand, and then he's snoring.

Dean goes back into the kitchen and sits at the table, peeling back the tinfoil from one of the plates. Cool water droplets drip from the foil onto the diced carrots, which look a little soggy and sad and not nearly as appetizing as they did when Dean cooked them earlier. He's not sure if it's laziness or apathy, but he simply doesn't feel like getting up to reheat the carrots that probably taste like crap anyway, so he just spoons a bunch of them into his mouth. They're much sweeter than he remembered when his mom had made them, too much brown sugar and too many bits of orange peel, so they taste more like candied yams than the vegetable they're supposed to be. Cold, watery, disgusting candied yams.

The solitary mouthful of failed carrots is enough to put him off the rest of the meal. He swallows the gross lump of food with difficulty, but he can still feel it heavy on his tongue, a thick layer of sugar and citrus coating the inside of his mouth. Dean never minded sweet foods before, but this is overkill. He supposes it's a good thing his dad didn't attempt to eat them.

Dean takes the plate of carrots and dumps them in the trash, scraping the plate clean with the spoon. He crumples the foil into a ball, takes several large steps backward, and tosses the foil at the trashcan, mentally claiming a three pointer as he watches it sail into the wall and fall to the floor.

His aim could use a little work.

He leaves the foil on the floor for now, picking up the rest of the plates and putting them in the refrigerator. Dean went a little overboard earlier when making the food, cooking enough for a large family, so there's enough leftovers now to last him a week assuming his dad doesn't eat any. Once the food is all put away, he stands alone in the empty kitchen, unsure of what to do with himself. He checks the clock, and it's almost midnight. Might as well go to sleep.

Dean's bedroom isn't much bigger than his dad's, but it feels so much smaller because there's twice as much crap stuffed into it. Dean's bed is on the left side of the room, a twin pushed up against the wall with most of his belongings packed in a duffel bag beneath it. His side of the room is relatively neat and orderly. The right side, however, has the homey ambiance of a storage room crammed with too many boxes and a dust-covered bookshelf. Somewhere beneath the pile of untouched boxes, books, and clothes is another twin-sized bed, pushed up against the wall like Dean's. Another reminder of how much the Winchester family has dwindled.

The bed groans when Dean sits on it, but he doesn't yet lie down. He checks his watch and sees that it's one minute left to midnight, so he stares at the quick-ticking hand until it circles around and declares the minute has passed.

“Happy fuckin' birthday,” Dean sighs to himself, reaching into his pocket for a pack of smokes. There's only two Marlboros left, but he needs something to counteract all the sugar in his mouth and it's his goddamned birthday, so really, why not.

Dean stands and takes the few steps to the narrow window, cracking it open and pulling his silver Zippo lighter out from the other pocket. It has a skull on it, and his initials, and Dean actually really likes the lighter even if it wasn't something he would pick out for himself. It was gift, and he really should replace it sometime soon with something completely different. He's not supposed to be thinking about the person who gave it to him, but it's kind of hard to avoid when he's up to nearly half a pack a day and it's the only lighter he has. Dean likes the lighter - loves it if he's being honest - but not enough for that particular brand of torture anymore.

He returns to his bed and lies down, lighting the cigarette in his mouth and sucking down a wonderfully deep drag of nicotine that sends a pleasant tingle to his fingertips.

Fuck yes, Dean needed this.

There's been a 'no smoking indoors' rule since pretty much forever, but Dean doesn't want to have to sit outside in cold January weather just to have a much needed smoke on his birthday. The open window should vent any lingering smell, and it's not like it doesn't reek there already.

He takes another drag and closes his eyes, finding that he's much more tired than he originally suspected. Dean has been working nearly 12 hours a day between his shifts at Bobby's salvage yard and Ellen's Roadhouse, but those 12 hour days are the only thing standing between him and homelessness. Dean is technically the only breadwinner under this roof, so he should be the one making the rules, anyway - not John drinks-for-a-living Winchester.

Dean didn't even realize he had fallen asleep until someone is suddenly hitting him, snapping him back into consciousness.

“You little fucking shit,” John is slapping at Dean's hand (which stings like a motherfucker) and Dean bolts upright, shoving his dad away on instinct. Dean pushes him so hard that his dad falls backward into the boxes, crushing one beneath him, spilling the contents out onto the wooden floor.

Dean didn't mean to shove his dad so hard, or at all, but he couldn't stop the urge to protect himself in those first fleeting moments of confused alertness. John picks himself up off the floor, using the surrounding boxes to steady himself, then eyes the old articles of clothing that had fallen out of the one he collapsed on.

John looks absolutely crushed himself, deflated and enraged and something else Dean can't quite identify, but knows isn't anything good.

“Shit, dad, I'm sorry, I didn't mean -”

“To what, burn the house down?” John's intense glare isn't completely focused on Dean, but rather the entire room and everything inside of it. Dean's mind is still playing catch up, unsure of what his dad means until he feels the tender flesh on the pads of his fingers, searing with a hot burn that could only mean he fell asleep with the cigarette still burning in his hand. “Or shove me into your brother's shit?”

“I'm sorry,” Dean says again, this time quieter but no less desperate. He can't believe he did something so stupid or dangerous, which is saying something considering all the stupid and dangerous things Dean does on a regular basis, but he knows this one hits too close to home.

John folds his arms across his chest and turns his gaze towards the open window, shaking his head like he can't believe Dean could be so stupid, either.

Dean scans his bed for any signs of burn marks, but doesn't find any. The silence is so uncomfortable that he starts thinking of ways to quietly excuse himself while his dad looks pensively out the window. His fingers are beginning to throb and he doesn't want to be in the same room as the colorful t-shirts puddled on the floor around the split cardboard box.

It's not the first time Dean has smoked inside the house, but it is the first time he's ever fallen asleep with a lit cigarette between his fingers. He feels like an asshole, caught red handed in the most literal sense, and for his father having to save them both from a much worse outcome. Dean is surprised, however, that his father is even sober enough to be standing on his own. He looks at his watch and sees that it's three in the morning, which Dean supposes is enough time for a veteran alcoholic to sober up and need more.

“You tryin' to kill us? Not enough Winchesters gone as it is? What the hell were you thinking?” John's voice is deep and husky, strained and thick with sleep, but Dean can still decipher what his dad is really trying to say. He can hear the unspoken words loud and clear.

_You already killed your mom, Dean, isn't that enough?_

Whether his father says the words aloud or not, he's right. Dean is fuck-up of epic proportions, and everyone smart enough to realize that already got the hell out of dodge. 

He tries to apologize again, utterly devoid of anything else to say in his defense, but John doesn't want to hear it. His dad turns toward the box and kicks it with whatever remaining strength he has, sending Sammy's shirts all over the room, then storms out.

If Sammy had been here, he would have jumped to Dean's defense in a heartbeat, scolding their dad for reacting so harshly. Or maybe, since Dean really did fuck up big time, Sammy would have sided with dad and called him a dumbass. It was a rare thing for his brother to side with John, but it had happened before and Dean didn't really want to think about the bitch face Sammy would have made if he'd been here to witness Dean's stupidity.

If Sammy had been here, he would have told Dean to stay. Instead, Dean leaves the room as well, no one stopping him or telling him to stay safe, and heads out the front door into the sharp winter air.

There's really only one place to go in Lawrence at this time of night, and while it's not exactly what Dean wants, he figures it's what he needs. The Roadhouse is a squalid old bar where Dean moonlights four nights a week, even though he's not much of a bartender. Ellen runs the place, and lets Dean have the slow nights so he can make money while messing up the fewest number of drinks possible.

He doesn't figure the bar will be open this late, but he has both a key and permission to drink whatever he wants so long as he cleans up after himself. Dean isn't really looking to get drunk, he does that enough as it is, and right now he needs something more than a buzz to kill the shame hanging over his head.

The upside to working at a bar is getting to meet a lot of people, and Dean would be lying if he said he never used that to his advantage to get laid. It's how he met Benny, a Roadhouse regular that doesn't mind the occasional quick fuck in the alley behind the bar. Not exactly romantic or classy, but when they realized they were both looking for the same thing, it didn't much matter where they took care of business.

It's also where he met Lisa, and where she gave Dean the lighter in his pocket for his birthday exactly one year ago. He tries not to think about her or any of those agonizing memories as he pulls up to the Roadhouse ten minutes later, unsurprised by the lack of lights from inside.

There are, however, several groups of people hanging around outside the bar, drinking and commiserating with friends. They were probably just ushered outside by Ellen or Jo, not yet ready to put their night with drinks and friends to an end. Dean scans the groups for anyone he thinks he could convince to fuck him.

He ignores the chicks for now, focusing on the guys, even though some of the girls look downright seductive. A couple of them have tits that look handcrafted by God himself, with pert little asses to match, but Dean doesn't have the emotional strength necessary at the moment to hook up with one of them. It's too easy to pretend they're Lisa, too easy to get lost in the fantasy that she's come back to him and he doesn't have to be alone anymore.

Lucky enough for Dean, he spots Benny standing by himself, leaning against the brick with a cigarette dangling from between his clenched lips. Benny isn't exactly Dean's type, but he's easy enough on the eyes, and he doesn't have to spend time flirting or warming him up for what he wants. They've been doing this on and off for a couple years and neither of them has complained yet.

He's not sure why Benny is at the bar at this hour, alone and standing in the alley where they usually do their thing, and Dean worries that maybe Benny is there to meet up with someone else. He's only ever seen him once or twice a week at the bar, during one of Dean's weekday shifts, but he never considered that Benny might actually be there more often than just Mondays and Tuesdays. But he's here now, and Dean doesn't want to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Dean gets out of the car and pulls his jacket tightly around him, trying to block out the cold. He walks past the groups of people, and winks back at a voluptuous blonde in a cowgirl hat. She giggles and beckons him to come over, but he just smiles and keeps on walking until he's around the side of the building where Benny is standing. She's cute, and maybe if circumstances had been different, he'd take her to the back of his Impala and show her some Winchester hospitality.

“Dean-o,” Benny says, one side of his thin-lipped mouth lifting in a half smile, “didn't expect to see you this evening.”

“Pretty sure it's morning now,” Dean counters, approaching Benny and plucking the cigarette from his lips to steal a drag.

Benny looks off into the distance, maybe at nothing in particular or maybe at the skyline, and says, “Yeah, suppose you're right.”

They stand together awkwardly for a bit, passing the cigarette back and forth until it's nearly expired. Benny keeps his eyes trained on Dean, with a look that makes Dean both a little excited and a little uneasy. It's a look of hunger, some kind of yearning ache that reminds Dean of the way he used to look at Lisa before they finally sealed the deal. He's not into labels, but when it came to Lisa, he wore the boyfriend title with a sense of pride and accomplishment.

He accepts the way Benny stares at him now, selfishly enjoying the way it makes him feel wanted or attractive, even if it's intense enough to make him feel equally discomposed. He and Benny are, for lack of a better term, fuck buddies. Nothing more, nothing less.

“You got time?” Dean asks, carefully avoiding eye contact, choosing instead to analyze the menthol in his hand. Benny has never turned him down before, but there's a first for everything and Dean doesn't know how well he would handle more rejection tonight. He's just glad that Benny speaks his language, and he doesn't have to say what he wants outright for Benny to understand.

“I've always got time for you, babe,” Benny laughs, taking his cigarette back. Dean rolls his eyes at the endearment, he's never been into pet names and 'babe' is just way too girly, but he doesn't say anything about it. All things considered, it doesn't really matter because they're not dating and Benny's never done anything else particularly annoying, unless he counts the one time Benny bit Dean's neck during a particularly rough romp in the back of the Impala. He just laughed when Dean called him a damn vampire and it didn't happen again.

Benny snuffs out the cigarette beneath his shoe, and they both watch carefully as the people outside the bar separate, going to their cars or walking off in opposite directions. When they're finally confident they're alone, Benny turns Dean so he's facing the wall and pushes him forward, fingers playing along the top of his jeans.

“I don't have any lube,” Benny whispers, unzipping his pants and pressing his erection against Dean's ass.

“Don't need it,” Dean pushes his ass back against Benny before undoing his own belt, and that's all the foreplay either of them have patience for. Dean drops his pants as he hears Benny tear open a foil packet and roll a condom on.

“You sure?” No, actually, Dean isn't all that sure he wants to go at it without at least a little lubrication, but his dick is already half hard with anticipation and he needs this to distract himself from the gaping holes in his life. Pain, he thinks, is better than retreating to the dark cavern of his bedroom, too quiet in funereal solitude. Besides, he's seen guys do it dry in porn videos all the time and they don't seem too bothered by it.

Benny doesn't wait for answer, pushing the blunt head of his cock into Dean. _Holy fuck_ does it hurt, it burns and the dry latex only makes it worse. He tries to relax with no success, grunting and clenching his fists like he's being kicked in the ribs. Benny stops, barely halfway in, and says, “You okay? If it's too much, just tell me to stop.”

But Dean doesn't want him to stop. He's not the type of guy that gets off on physical pain, but there's something appealing about the idea of getting fucked raw as a challenge or a punishment or both. He takes a few steadying breaths, clearing his head, then says, “Hurry up and fuck me already.”

Another good thing about Benny is he doesn't need to be told anything twice.

It's still a slow start, but Dean thinks it's more because he's too tight and too dry for Benny to possibly go any faster. He bottoms out after a handful of eager thrusts, moaning into Dean's ear at the feel of his hips pressed up against Dean's ass.

Even with a generous amount of slick, taking it up the ass can be rough and painful, especially when condoms are involved, so going completely without it feels a lot like being dragged through gravel and quartered in the town square. Dean's dick has gone completely soft from the burning intrusion, and trying to revive it with sheer willpower isn't working at all. He was only half hard to begin with, but being this pathetically limp is embarrassing.

Dean is focusing so deeply on getting past the horrible chaffing in his ass that he's completely unaware of the noises he's making or the expression on his face. It must be bad if Benny is slowing down and leaning forward, reaching his hand around to grope at Dean's limp dick, and kissing on the side of his face and neck. Dean turns his head away, not wanting to be kissed, not wanting to turn this into some romantic tryst, but Benny doesn't relent.

“Kiss me, baby,” he says, whispering the words directly into the shell of Dean's ear, sending unwanted shivers down his spine. When Dean doesn't respond, Benny slows until he's almost completely stopped, still cupping Dean in his hand.

Now Dean is just pissed. He didn't come here for fucking _courtship_ , he just wanted the same old hard-and-fast routine he's used to, and since when has Benny ever been interested in more than that? He's never actually touched Dean's cock before and he's certainly never asked for kissing, but Dean isn't ready to go home yet. If kissing Benny means he goes back to that rapid rhythm, then Dean's willing to suck it up and put out.

He turns his head and Benny's mouth is on his, licking at the seam of his lips to coax Dean into opening up. Dean hesitates, not really wanting to escalate the situation by tangling their tongues together, but eventually gives in as his ass starts to hurt less. He can feel the subtle pleasure blooming beneath the pain, and his dick starts to get with the program.

Dean opens his mouth for Benny and lets him take control of the kiss, mostly leaving himself open so that Benny can explore his mouth with an eager tongue. Dean actually thinks he might be starting to enjoy the wet heat of Benny's kiss, until Benny pulls away, smiling, and says, “Your mouth is so sweet, baby, I knew you'd be sweet as candy.”

And that's it for Dean. His final straw was pulled and he's done with whatever game Benny is getting at. He knows his mouth probably does taste like candy after all the brown sugar and citrus, but he didn't want to be kissing Benny in the first place and he definitely didn't want the additional commentary. It's kind of hard to get lost in your own mind and enjoy the ride when the person doing the fucking won't shut up.

He jerks his head away with a frustrated grunt, but Benny does his valiant best to chase Dean's mouth anyway.

“Goddammit, asshole, lay off!” Dean shouts, now giving up on the whole thing entirely, trying to stand up and push himself away from the wall. Unfortunately, Benny has the upper hand and he's a lot heavier than he looks. Dean is about to tell him to get his cock out of his ass when he feels Benny go still behind him.

“What the hell are you looking at?” Benny spits, but it's not directed at Dean. He can feel his stomach drop to the ground and his heart thunders in his chest with the realization that someone is staring at them. Dean's pants are around his ankles and Benny is still deep inside him, so he can't really be blamed for not wanting to turn and look at whoever is watching.

For fuck's sake, please don't let it be Ellen or Jo.

“Are you okay?” The stranger asks, his voice deep and raspy. Dean realizes the man is talking to him now, not Benny, and that his current predicament might not look entirely consensual from an outside perspective. Dean is instantly grateful that he doesn't recognize the voice, but he's still frustratingly flustered to be interrupted with his pants down. He can't stop the blushing heat of shame and embarrassment from burning on his neck and face when he turns to tell the guy to fuck off.

Before he can actually say anything, Dean's eyes make contact with the stranger, and he finds himself staring into the bluest eyes he's ever seen. He's floored by how beautiful they are, not that he would ever admit that to another living soul, and he forgets what he was going to say. Dean's gaze travels from the eyes, upward to the styled mess of dark hair, then back down. The man is still staring at him, his eyebrows raised in confused expectation, waiting for an answer.

Benny answers for him. “Get lost, pervert.”

That must strike the man as funny, because he laughs a little, then smirks. “I'd rather hear it from him, if you don't mind.”

Dean is beyond mortified, but with Benny distracted he decides it's a good time to shove off and pull his pants back up. He pushes Benny back with his elbow, the cock in his ass finally slipping free, and Dean does what he can to pull his pants up without bending over too much. Benny gets the point and is tucking himself back in, still staring daggers at the man and hovering too closely around Dean.

“Fuck you both,” Dean mutters, storming off in the direction of his car, not bothering to look back. Neither man follows him, thank God, but once he's back in the Impala he decides to brave a glance in the direction he came from.

Benny and the stranger are still talking, neither looking too pleased, and Benny keeps mouthing something and pointing in Dean's direction. He doesn't have any idea who the blue-eyed stranger is, but he fucking hopes to Christ that he keeps his mouth shut and doesn't call the police. The last thing Dean needs right now is Sheriff Jody finding out he sleeps with guys and blabbing it to Bobby - or even worse, to Dad.

Dean feels lousy for leaving Benny to deal with the guy by himself, and Dean isn't exactly the type of person to run from a potential fight, but this was just too much for one day. It's one thing to have a bad day, but Dean has been having a bad _year._ He can't remember the last time he felt real happiness, and now he can't even get fucked in a bar alley by a guy he only somewhat knows without feeling guilty about it.

He starts the car and drives off, trying really hard not to think about how much it hurts to be sitting on his ass right now, or how much it's going to hurt when he's fixing cars at work in approximately five hours. His skin still feels flushed and red with humiliation despite the near freezing temperature outside and are eyes that perfectly blue even possible?

And where the hell did _that_ thought come from?

Dean makes it home a little after four in the morning, dragging his feet all the way to his bedroom and lies face down on his shitty mattress. Even after his botched attempt to drive away the memories, he can't stop himself from falling asleep with Lisa and Sammy imprinted behind his eyelids.

His alarm clock goes off at 8:00am, and as tempted as he is to hit the snooze button, Dean didn't much care for the dream he was having and concludes it's better that he wakes up. He drags himself into the bathroom to piss, but winces with every step. It's a good thing he's already a little bow-legged, otherwise it would be disturbingly obvious that something was wrong with the way he's walking, because it feels like Benny shoved a freaking baseball bat up his ass.

It isn't until after Dean showers and towels off that he sees the bruising of a hickey sucked into his flesh on the side of his neck. He doesn't remember getting one the night before, but Benny can be a stealthy motherfucker and Dean was focusing on something else entirely at the time. He ought to kick the shit out of Benny for this; he knew better than to leave a hickey where someone else could see (or to leave a hickey at all, the asshole) and now everyone at work will see it.

Dean doesn't feel as bad now for leaving Benny to deal with the misguided bar hero on his own. The fucker deserves whatever the stranger was giving out for the hickey and kissing and commentary.

He gets dressed, slowly, not just because he doesn't want to go to work, but also because everything touching his ass feels like sandpaper. After five minutes of pussyfooting around his clothes, Dean gets impatient and pulls up his jeans like ripping off a band-aid. Quick, painful, but fucking done.

Dean checks around the house for his dad, committing himself to bringing his dad back to his room if he finds him asleep somewhere else, despite their less than pleasant encounter last night. Dean checks every room in the house, but doesn't see his dad anywhere. Wherever John went, he must still be there. Dean's not sure why that hurts as much as it does, but he tries to ignore the stabbing guilt in his chest in favor of the burning ache in his ass.

If John had come back last night, Dean would have taken that to be a sign of forgiveness. But it makes sense, Dean thinks. He can't expect his dad to forgive him for something Dean wouldn't forgive that quickly either. Winchesters aren't exactly the forgive and forget type.

Sitting in the front seat of the Impala fucking sucks. It hurts worse than it did last night. Fuck Benny and fuck the bar and fuck everyone who has ever existed. Fuck Sammy and fuck Lisa and fuck his ass – no, wait, not his ass. Ass fucking is what caused all this pain in the first place. Fuck that shit, and that speed bump too.

As Dean pulls into Bobby's Salvage, the anxiety building in his chest starts to fade. There's something therapeutic about working beneath the hood of a car all day, almost cathartic, and Dean would be lying if he said he only took this job because it was available. It's not glamorous or high paying, and he might end the workday covered in dirt and grease, but he truly enjoys the job and the people he works with. Not many people can say that.

It has nothing to do with the fact that his dad used to be a mechanic, really. Nothing to do with the few glimmering memories of his father smiling beneath the hood of the Impala, sweating and laughing while showing Dean how it's done. Not at all.

Bobby won't be at the garage this early, one of the perks of being the boss, but Charlie is always here first thing in the morning. She's one of the few people Dean actually considers to be a friend, and if Dean secretly thinks of her as his _best_ friend, well, that's his business.

Sure enough, Charlie is in the office going over some paperwork when Dean enters and punches his card in the time clock. Her red hair is a tangled mess and she's in the same clothes as yesterday. The dark bags beneath her hazel eyes confirm Dean's suspicions.

“You stayed here all night, didn't you?”

“Ugh,” she grunts, slamming the papers down onto the desk, “Bobby is the most disorganized person I know. How he manages to run a business is beyond me.”

Dean has thought the same thing many times during the last few years, unsure of how Bobby manages to know where anything is in his office when it's so chaotic, but he figures Bobby has a method to his madness.

“Well, he does have some pretty amazing employees,” Dean laughs, pouring himself a cup of coffee. He brings the pot over to Charlie's cup, empty on the desk, and fills it for her. She clutches it in her hands and takes several gulps, sighing in relief.

“This coffee tastes like crap,” Charlie says between sips, but the look of happiness on her face makes Dean think she's exaggerating. She loves her coffee black, but Dean likes a few packets of sugar in his, no cream. He reaches for the Sweet 'N Low, then remembers what Benny had said last night about how sweet his mouth tasted, and his stomach sours. He decides against sugar in his coffee, frowning, and takes a brave sip of his black coffee.

Charlie wasn't kidding. The coffee is pretty gross.

“No sugar in your coffee? What is it, the apocalypse?” Charlie mocks, nearly finished with her cup already.

“Shuddup,” Dean says, then changes the topic, “So what's on the agenda for today?”

“It's Friday, what do you think?”

Oh right, Dean forgot it was Friday already, which means the schedule is going to be pretty busy. He might even end up taking on extra hours again to get everything done, not that he minds the extra pay, but he should have thought twice before taking it dry up the ass on a Thursday.

He looks at the appointment schedule for the day, handwritten in Bobby's sloppy penmanship, and looks at the different cars he's going to get to work on . For the most part the cars are normal ones, nothing too exciting, until he sees a Chevrolet Chevelle SS marked down for the early afternoon.

“Awesome!” Dean calls out, looking back at Charlie. She nods and says, “The Chevelle, right? I totally call dibs on that one.”

“No way!” Dean retorts, but it comes out more like a groan. “Come on, at least let me help on it.”

“Respect the dibs, Winchester,” Charlie teases, “besides, the guy brought it in late last night. It's here, so you can go ogle it all you want.”

A quick glance out the window affirms Charlie's claim, and it's still early enough that he can go check it out before opening the garage and getting their work day started. He does his best to make it outside without waddling, but a puzzled glance from Charlie means it didn't go entirely unnoticed.

Dean doesn't stop to explain it away with a lie, not that he was able to come up with one that sounds plausible, and ignores her for now. It's not really any of her business, anyway.

The rich smell of rust and rubber crowd his senses as he pushes open the weathered swinging door, blue minus the years of erosion from hands against the paint. Snow crunches beneath his feet, barely a fresh inch of it or so falling in flurries around him, and he wonders momentarily whether or not he should put a tarp over the Impala to protect her from the elements. Before he can decide, he sees the Chevelle in his periphery, beautiful and sexy and perfect - though nothing can compare to his Baby.

It's not red like Dean was expecting, but a sleek silvery gray, like gunmetal. There are no sporty racing stripes, just one solid color sans the black of the rag top. It's stunning, he thinks, as he trails a finger along the cool frame of the front window. He really shouldn't be touching such a masterpiece, but he can't help himself. Cars like this are siren songs to him, flooding his senses with the need to feel and explore and _drive_.

Dean circles the car until he's standing by the rear, his finger still dragging along the surface of the car, when he sees something that stops him dead in his tracks. There are very distinct taillights, framed by black and chrome trim on the rear panel. Dean jerks his hand away and jumps back, ignoring the sharp protest in his ass, because he's been dragging his dirty hands over a rare and coveted 1965 Z16.

Never in his life did he think his hands would be so lucky.

The Chevelle is all the more beautiful after his realization, but he wonders what kind of psychopath would leave such a lusted classic in a mediocre, inadequate garage without so much as a tarp or armed gunmen to protect it. There must be only, what, less than a hundred Z16's left accounted for? Not to mention a gorgeous custom job like this one must be worth at least six figures.

If he wasn't so sore, Dean would totally have a hard-on right now.

It's time to open shop, so Dean has to drag himself away, begrudgingly, from the car of his wet dreams (except for the Impala, of course, no need for his Baby to be jealous) and goes back inside. Charlie has a smirk on her face, and Dean would love to wipe it off of her, but unfortunately he does respect the dibs. He's not a total savage, after all.

Dean might not be able to work on the car, but he can at least introduce himself to the car's lucky owner, assuming the guy (or girl) isn't a total douche bag. He looks back at the appointment sheet, finds the Chevelle, and sees _Castiel Novak._

Wow. May Dean be damned if that isn't the most pretentious, spoon-fed name he's ever seen. With a fancy appellation like that, the guy is probably a total bag of dicks - or chick, 'cause he's never heard the name before, so he's not quite sure which gender it belongs to.

They start their work day and Dean is making pretty good time on the vehicles, knocking them out nearly twice as fast as Charlie is. It's mostly because of the monstrous misery his ass is in, but sometimes after a particularly rough night he lets himself slip into a focused concentration, blocking everything out except for himself, the vehicle, and his plaguing thoughts.

He's in that zone now, working on the vehicles with a dangerous efficiency. Dean has somehow completely forgotten about the Z16, ruminating instead about where his father could be and when he might be coming back, and what happened between Benny and Blue-Eyes after he left. Fleeting images of Sammy and Lisa slip in and out of his thoughts without his permission as usual, and the lighter in his pocket starts to feel like a brick.

Bobby comes in just before noon, looking dapper as ever in his holey jeans and grimy baseball cap, unshaven beard and flannel jacket. Dean is pulled out of his dark reverie by the unmistakable scent of oatmeal raisin cookies, cradled in Tupperware beneath Bobby's arm.

“Alright, y'idgits. Jody made some cookies, so you better eat and enjoy them.” Bobby takes the plastic container back into the office, followed closely by a brilliantly smiling Charlie. Few people could rival Dean's love of baked goods, but Charlie is certainly one of them.

He finishes up the '82 GMC pickup, driving it out to the front parking lot to clear the garage for the next vehicle, then heads into the office where Bobby and Charlie are each munching on a mouthful of oatmeal raisin goodness. Dean finds that it's even harder to walk straight after laying on a wooden creeper for hours, his ass practically crying out in pain, but if it looks like Dean is trying to walk around with a beach ball between his legs, no one cares enough to mention it.

The smell is amazing, but as soon as Dean reaches his hand into the container and grabs a cookie, he pouts. The cookies are cold and hard and not at all what he was hoping for.

“Something wrong?” Charlie asks, crunching away on another bite of cookie. Bobby lifts an eyebrow in Dean's direction but doesn't ask.

“They're not even soft,” Dean whines, putting the cookie back into the container.

“So? They're super yummy. Try one,” Charlie insists, waving her half-eaten cookie in his face.

“No way. If it doesn't hug my mouth and call me Sally, it's not a real cookie.”

Bobby reaches over and smacks Dean in the back of his head. “Eat a damn cookie, _Sally_ , 'fore I get my shotgun.”

“I don't negotiate with terrorists,” Dean deadpans, leaving the office with a scowl.

As he exits through the door, he collides with a customer, spilling their coffee all over himself.

“Shit!” The coffee is hotter than Satan's asshole, burning right through his t-shirt and scalding his stomach. He contorts too quickly, stumbling over his sneakers and falling backwards, landing square on his already tender backside.

“Fuck! Fucking motherfucker!” The pain is so intense that Dean thinks he might actually throw up, and the coffee is still burning into the sensitive flesh of his belly. He rips off the shirt as quickly as he can, working through the blinding pain radiating from his ass down to his legs and up his spine.

Bobby and Charlie rush out of the office into the hallway, stopping beside Dean, leaning down to help him up. Dean forcefully pushes them away, pissed off and growling, hurting himself further. They straighten up, standing beside him silently, but he can feel their eyes all over him. He takes a minute to breathe and calm down before looking up at Charlie.

He's not expecting the look of horror and pity contorting her delicate features, but it doesn't exactly surprise him. Dean just cussed and yelled in front of a customer, stripped off his shirt and must be glowing red with embarrassment. He could actually be fired for this, so he looks over to Bobby, but he has the same expression as Charlie. Bobby's eyebrows are practically up in his hairline.

Dean realizes then that both Bobby and Charlie are staring at the same thing, and it's not his face or his stomach. He looks down and sees two very distinct, rounded bruises, one on each of his hips.

Bruises that mean someone had gripped him obscenely tight from behind.

Bruises that can only mean one of two things.

A frenzy blooms somewhere inside of him, his heart stampeding in and out of his ribcage. Dean hasn't told anyone that he sleeps with guys, not even Charlie, but some customer just lent an accidental hand in outing Dean to his coworkers.

Dean can't control the sudden fury and resentment he feels toward whoever the customer is. His eyes dart forward toward the man, disgraced and accusatory, until he's staring into the bluest eyes he's ever seen...again.

The customer, no – the stranger from last night – is here, staring down at Dean, recognition and concern written all over his beautiful face.

Their eyes lock, and it seems like ages before either one of them moves. He can see Bobby from the corner of his eye, lifting his hands in resignation and receding back into the office. Charlie regains her composure and reaches her hand out toward the man, apologizing for Dean's atrocious behavior.

“I am so sorry,” she says, “I'll make sure Dean gets you another coffee, sir."

“It's quite alright,” he replies, the same gravelly voice he remembers from last night, “and please, call me Castiel.”  


	2. Chapter 2

Dean bites his tongue, too hard, stopping himself from saying something he will regret. A familiar coppery tang coats the inside of his mouth – blood, he realizes – and swallows it back. His tongue hurts, but not nearly as much as the rest of him, and he doesn't know whether or not he can actually stand up on his own. That would require too much use of his legs, which he doubts are more substantial than jello right now.

He's still staring at Castiel, the stranger he'd been so unfavorably interrupted by the night before. Dean can't help his initial reaction, the same one he had in the alley behind the bar, that has him practically gawking at one of the most attractive men he's ever seen. Castiel radiates sex with every part of his body, from his dark tousled hair (ruffled as though someone had raked their passionate fingers through it) to the coral pink of his lips, slightly chapped, which Dean could easily remedy with a particularly wet kiss.

Charlie extends her hand again to Dean, and this time he accepts it, afraid to be left on the ground and unable to stand. It hurts so much more than he expected, a whimper escaping his mouth. Charlie held onto him until he was fully upright, and the way her arms awkwardly hovered around his waist made Dean think she was debating on whether or not to hug him. He knows Charlie means well, but he hopes she doesn't. He's never felt quite this dirty and exposed before in his life and being held by someone else sounds exceptionally unappealing.

Dean returns his attention to Castiel, who is unashamedly staring back at Dean, head tilted ever so slightly as if in question. Just as Dean is swallowing back another coppery pool, Charlie's arms wrap around his waist, gently, high enough to avoid touching the bruises on his hips. It reminds him how angry and embarrassed he is, how completely unprepared he is to have that conversation with the few close people in his life. His staring turns into a steadfast glare, but Castiel's expression remains the same.

He pries Charlie's arms off of himself, treating her hands as if they are contaminated. He supposes they are after they've touched Dean's polluted, unworthy flesh, but doesn't offer her an explanation for why he's pushing her away. She looks heartbroken and dejected, but he can't deal with her pity right now. His skin crawls under Castiel's unwavering gaze.

“Don't you ever blink?” Dean growls in Castiel's direction, “You got a fuckin' staring problem or something?”

“Dean!” Charlie gasps, her face blushing a shade of red darker than her fiery hair. “Apologize!”

There are so many expletives Dean would rather spit than an apology, especially to the trench-coated man that seems to have wormed his way into Dean's (very) private life, but he knows he crossed a line. He's never treated a customer this way, regardless of the circumstances, and he needs this job to keep a roof over his head.

After a long, overdue sigh, Dean's eyes meet the ocean blue of Castiel's, and he says, “Sorry man. I overreacted.”

It's as good as a Winchester apology ever gets, and Charlie knows this. She doesn't push him for more and even seems somewhat satisfied with it. Castiel smiles with sincerity, assuring both Dean and Charlie that it's alright, he understands.

But then Charlie does something unexpected, and Dean isn't sure if it's meant to be punishment for his behavior or a reward for the apology. She picks up Dean's shirt from the ground, folds it into a messy ball, and says, “Dean, you should be the one to work on Castiel's Chevelle. You're the best mechanic here, and I think after this incident Castiel would appreciate knowing his car is good hands.”

If Dean could jump for joy, he totally would, but that joy is immediately squashed when he remembers that the car is Castiel's, which means he'd have to deal with him and those blue eyes until the car is finished.

On one hand, Dean doesn't think he would mind that too much. Rarely does such high quality eye candy come into the shop, and never has there been a sweeter ride than the Z16 taunting him in the back parking lot. On the other hand, this man that he doesn't know from Joe Shmoe already knows too much about Dean's life, specifically about something that he's never mentioned to anyone. To add insult to injury, Castiel is practically at fault for exposing the bruises on his hips (okay, not really, but still) and Dean can't subdue the hatred bubbling in his veins.

“I don't know if that's a good idea, Charlie,” he says, hoping she picks up on the not-so-subtle request. If she got the hint, she didn't act on it, directing Dean instead to the back lot to get started.

All things considered, Dean's birthday could be going a lot worse. At least no one died.

He resigns to his fate, limping over the the coat rack to cover his shirtless torso before he goes outside to pull the car into the shop. Charlie hands him the keys, frowning at the way Dean waddles and falters, but says nothing more before heading into the office to join Bobby.

Castiel is still standing there, and Dean wonders if the man's brain is assembled correctly or not.

The weather has warmed up slightly since the morning, but the leather seat of the Z16 is cold enough to penetrate through Dean's jeans and chill his legs. It actually feels kind of good on his ass, but that's another thought that he marks as private for the personal safe in his head. There are some things other people don't need to hear.

The Chevelle roars to life and Dean changes his mind. Dealing with Castiel will be totally worth the awesomeness of working on this beautiful piece of American muscle car history. He'd be ashamed of the way his dick jumps to life at that thought if he wasn't so damn proud. His dick has pretty good taste in cars and people.

Dean drives the car into the shop, shutting it off and doing his best to get out of the car without looking completely crippled. He's not really surprised to see Castiel waiting for him, sitting in a chair a safe distance away from the car and tools, a new cup of hot coffee in his hands. No one else is in the shop, a small mercy, so Dean takes the opportunity to clear the air. He doesn't owe Castiel an explanation, but he hates to be viewed as a person in need of pity.

“It was consensual,” he says, careful not to be too loud. Castiel nods and takes a sip from his steaming cup.

“Didn't look like it,” he replies, and if the tone of his voice wasn't so sympathetic, Dean might have seen it as a challenge. But he knows too well what the situation looked like, which is mostly Dean's fault anyway, and he can't blame the guy for trying to be a good Samaritan.

“Yeah,” Dean acknowledges, then, “I, uh, like it that way...sometimes. Sorry you had to get involved in it, though.”

Castiel sits up straighter in the chair, tilting his head in thoughtful contemplation. Dean is beginning to think that's a 'thing' for Castiel, the head tilting, but he doesn't get a lot of time to wonder about it before the man huffs a short laugh. “Your boyfriend explained it to me last night. I apologized and asked him to relay my reparations to you as well. I'm guessing he hasn't.”

“Benny is _not_ my boyfriend,” he snaps too quickly, unthinking. Castiel seems surprised to hear that, then confused.

“That's not what he said,” Castiel explains, tilting his head again, an invitation for Dean to explain. But Dean isn't sure he knows _how_ to explain their precarious relationship, or if he even wants to share that much with the man.

Of course Benny would be that much of a douche, telling people that they're dating. He wonders how many other people have been told that selfish lie, how many people think Dean is committed to a burly barfly with a thick Louisiana accent. It's possible that Benny just said it to get Castiel to go away, but Dean knows Benny better than that. He's not the type of guy to explain himself to strangers, not to mention he's so upfront with what he wants that he's practically an open book.

Dean plays his cards close to his chest, but Benny would sooner reveal his hand than keep his cards a secret. Maybe this explains why he was trying so hard to kiss Dean, why he escalated their usual hit-and-run styled fuck sessions into something more touchy-feely. It's entirely possible that Dean was the only one who understood the parameters of their late night pit stops, and it makes him feel sick.

No, there's no way Benny thought they were really dating. Dean had been pretty clear from the get-go that he was only interested in sex.

He doesn't feel like giving Castiel any more insight into his life, so he summarizes it in the most direct way possible. “We just fuck sometimes.”

Castiel doesn't push the issue. It's a goddamned birthday miracle. What Castiel _does_ do, God bless him, is change the subject.

“Think you can get her in tip-top shape?”

Dean shudders. He knew that Castiel would be some kind of wealthy, polo wearing asshole, but his use of _tip-top_ just makes him cringe. Seriously, who says that kind of thing anymore? He wonders if the entire Novak family lives on some kind of isolated mountain above the cloud line, speaking to each other in outdated phrases, practically Shakespearean with antiquity.

The guy already seems pretty awkward, and Dean wouldn't be surprised if Castiel did grow up isolation, probably home schooled or something, so he doesn't want to draw attention to the peculiar way he speaks. Instead, Dean decides he will try to subtly teach him by simply using more common expressions around him.

“I'm pretty good at what I do, Mr. Novak. I'll get her cherry in no time.”

Castiel's eyebrows knit together in confusion (or deliberation, he's not sure which) and then his head tilts on cue. That is _definitely_ this guy's thing, and Dean is momentarily distracted by how cute it is. It's almost as if the guy is an adorable puppy, one ear perked up and waiting to be scratched.

Dean did not just refer to a man as an adorable puppy. He'll deny it with his final breath.

There's a few moments of awkward silence between them, which Dean realizes has happened a lot in the short time they've known each other. He grabs a clipboard from the tool station and turns his attention back to the marvelous vehicle, preparing to take notes, when Castiel says, “I don't want her to be red. I'd prefer to keep her the same color.”

Dean laughs at that, thinking the guy might be a lost cause, but he does refer to his car as a 'she' like any responsible car owner should, so he gives Castiel a pass. Poor guy thought 'cherry' meant changing the exterior to a red color. The Chevelle _would_ look good with a coat of shiny red paint like a bowl full of fresh cherries, but Dean is partial to the sleek silver it already is. It reminds him of an intricately engraved .45 Colt revolver he'd once admired in a pawn shop, but couldn't afford.

“It means I'll make her good as new. I wouldn't dream of changing this beauty's color. You've got a really nice car, Cas.”

Woops. Dean shouldn't have used a nickname, no matter how weird the dude's name is. The shortened moniker doesn't go unnoticed, but Cas (no, Castiel) actually smiles and nods in agreement, his eyes rolling over the long lines of the Chevelle. Dean is quick to correct himself, adding, “I mean, uh, Mr. Novak.”

And now Castiel is the one laughing, taking another sip from his coffee. Dean worries that Castiel must think of him as some kind of neanderthal, a shirtless monkey decent with tools but hopeless with the English language, one who passes the time getting fucked in alleys like a low class serf. Sometimes he forgets that initial judgments go both ways, and this wealthy but achingly handsome noble of society must not be very impressed with Dean.

He's never cared about what other people think of him before (except when it comes to his sexuality, because it's nobody's fucking business but his own) but for some reason the thought that Castiel might be humorously underwhelmed by his mechanic makes Dean feel self conscious. He's suddenly too aware that he's half naked beneath the jacket, and he can't work on the car with the jacket on, it's too puffy and constricting, so Dean's going to need to borrow a shirt from the supply closet.

There's a bunch of old t-shirts stacked in the closet in Bobby's office, since it's not uncommon for shirts to get ruined with car fluids, but Dean has never actually borrowed one before. He had no problem stripping off his shirt and getting back to work, and no one complained, either, because Dean knows he looks amazing shirtless, but now he thinks it would be best to slink back there and grab one or three for this particular job.

He wonders if Castiel thinks tattoos are low class, too. Or callouses, because Dean has blue-collar hands to match his minimum wage salary.

Castiel interrupts Dean's self-loathing with a fond smile. “You can call me Cas. It's much better than my brother calling me Cassie. No one has ever called me Cas before, but I think I might suggest it to people who have difficulty with my name. Thank you.”

Oh.

Dean's not sure what to do with the unexpected politeness, but he takes the gratitude as gracefully as he can without looking too surprised. He smiles back, succinctly, before dipping out of the room to get a t-shirt from Bobby's office.

Bobby and Charlie are having a heated argument in hushed, exasperated whispers. When Dean pushes open the door and crosses the room to the supply closet, they both immediately stop talking and stare at him. It's obvious that whatever they were debating had something to do with Dean, but he's not in the mood to hear it. They can yell at him later tonight if they must, but right now he has a classic car in desperate need of attention and an equally alluring man waiting to watch him.

The t-shirts are all either too big or too small, so he opts to go with one that's too big and has Judas Priest written across the front of it. He keeps his eyes to himself as he turns to leave the room, but Charlie stops him.

“Dean,” she starts, but he cuts her off.

“Not now,” he grunts. He's almost out the door when Bobby's voice, deep and authoritative, commands him to stay. Bobby is like the father Dean always wished he had, a surrogate uncle that stepped into their lives, picking up the trail of pieces that John managed to break off his two little boys, bit by bit. Where John was an eroding force of nature, Bobby smoothed over the edges.

He's more than just Dean's boss, which is why he stops at the door, obeying the command.

“Look at me, son,” Bobby says, this time with a gentler voice. Dean does as he's told, looking directly at him despite the jarring discomfort it causes him. “Do I need to take you to the hospital?”

Well, Dean wasn't expecting _that_ , and now he's just confused. “Why?”

Bobby looks embarrassed, almost as much as Dean feels. He glances at Charlie, who steps closer to Dean with worry written on her face. When Bobby doesn't speak up fast enough, Charlie takes over. “If someone did something to you, Dee, you need to get checked out.”

Of course, Charlie's using his childhood nickname to soften him up and make him more willing to go, but nobody forced Dean into anything and they used protection. It's clear now that they assumed the worst, not that Dean might be getting his rocks off with guys, but that someone held him down against his will and took what they wanted. As if Dean couldn't defend himself. Don't they know who they're talking to?

He needs to dispel the misunderstanding as painlessly as possible, but there's no way to do so without confirming he's less straight than everyone thought. He's learned from experience that telling people about his pan-sexuality is the quickest way to convince them that Dean is nothing more than an indiscriminate whore.

Dean lets Charlie hug him this time, because she looks like she really needs it. It sucks that she's so torn up about this, thinking someone violated her best friend, so he hugs back. Charlie is short, so it's easy for him to tilt his head down and kiss the top of her head. Her hair smells like coconut shampoo and it calms him down.

“I wasn't _raped_ , okay?” Dean intones, leaving it at that. Charlie is still holding on to him tightly, and Bobby doesn't look convinced. Dean hopes he isn't planning on giving him the good-touch bad-touch speech, because sex education from Bobby is about as fun as straddling a porcupine.

“Well you're not gay, and I'm not buying some lame excuse like falling down a flight of stairs. Stairs don't leave hickeys, Dean.”

He understands why it would be so hard for anyone to think Dean might be gay, with the way he cycles through women he meets at the bar or the long term relationship he was in with Lisa, but he's hoping they believe him anyway. This isn't the time or place Dean pictured coming out, especially since up until three months ago he was convinced he was going to marry Lisa, and it wouldn't have been necessary to come out at all.

“I am a little bit gay, actually. I like dicks as much as chicks and that's all I'm going to say about it. There's a sexy car out there begging for the Winchester treatment, so that's where I'm going to be, alright?”

Charlie releases him to get a better look at his expression (trying to figure out whether or not he's lying, he bets) but he doesn't stick around to let them analyze him or what he said. He leaves the office without another word and neither Bobby nor Charlie follow him, thank Christ.

He needs a cigarette after that bullshit.

Instead of returning to the garage to begin working on the Z16, Dean heads outside through the back door, forgetting the jacket he left in Bobby's office. He's not brave enough at the moment to go back in there and get it, especially not after the way Charlie looked at him like he was some kind of unrepentant liar, or the way Bobby's eyes bugged out of his skull. It's cold and he's already shivering, but he'd rather deal with hypothermia than any more drama over his sexuality.

He plucks a cigarette from his pack and brings it to his lips, biting gently on the filter to keep it in place as he searches for his lighter. Dean feels the ridges of he embossed skull in his pocket, pulls it out and flicks it on. The first inhale is pure bliss, and he holds it in his lungs for longer than usual before he blows out the cloudy puff of smoke.

This is his favorite part about smoking. He is in love with the way the nicotine rushes his system and tingles beneath his skin, like a warm numbing blanket for his insides. Dean knows it's not good for him, but he doesn't care. He doesn't do it to be rebellious or cool, he does it because he desperately needs these moments of freedom. He needs to drown out the constant cacophony resounding his skull, even if it means he must sacrifice years off of his life expectancy.

To say that Dean is bummed would be putting it mildly. He always thought that when he was ready to come out, Sammy would be the first person to know. He'd take Sam out the bar, loosen him up a little bit, then confess to him in the privacy of his Impala. Sam would be understanding, maybe even a little sappy about it, but would give Dean the extra boost he needed to tell his dad. John would have been less understanding, maybe he would have got drunk and screamed, but Sam would have had Dean's back.

Instead, the truth had been forced out of him after unintentionally stripping in front of everyone. He didn't have Sammy to soften the blow, to call Dean a jerk with lips perked in a half grin, to make him feel less alone. He'd outed himself because it was the lesser of two evils. Better to tell them the truth than to let them believe a lie.

He wonders if his dad will know by the time Dean gets home. Bobby might call him and tell him and then Dean won't have to. Maybe he'll be so disappointed that he'll drink himself unconscious and Dean can postpone the conversation for another night. There's a slight chance that John won't actually mind, because he's never said outright that homosexuality is wrong, but there's always been pressure to be a manly man capable of hunting and fighting and drinking, or the rare gleam of pride in his eyes when Dean brought home a really sexy chick.

After another deep inhale, the tenor of Dean's thoughts begin to change. He doesn't really give a fuck what his dad thinks, or what anyone thinks for that matter. Dean Winchester does _not_ apologize for being Dean Winchester, goddammit. Now that the secret is out, he's going to own it. No more sneaking quick fucks in dirty alleys, no more driving forty minutes out of town just so he can openly flirt with guys in public places. Hell, maybe he'll flirt with Cas, and see what Bobby and Charlie have to say then. Dean would really enjoy seeing a blush accompany those beryl blue eyes.

He finishes the cigarette and snuffs it out beneath his shoe. When he's back inside, Dean does a few jumping jacks and vigorously rubs his arms, trying to warm up. No one is around to make fun of him for it, which is nice.

Back in the garage, Dean expects to see Cas still sitting in his chair, nursing on his hot coffee, but he's gone. He glances around the garage and doesn't see him anywhere, disappointment swelling in his chest. Dean was perhaps a little too eager to test out his new-found bravery, so he swallows it back and goes to the Chevelle. The hard on he has for this car almost feels like cheating, but his Baby will understand. His left eye is allowed to wander, after all, as long as he always goes home to his sweet, faithful Impala.

At the end of the work day, Dean is exhausted. He'd worked up a good sweat once he got in the zone again and made some great progress, but he thinks that he'll take his time tomorrow. There's no need to rush the job, and every extra minute he gets to work on a Z16 is a minute well spent.

Charlie only came to check on Dean once, trying to entice him with those hard cookies again (to which he adamantly told her that cold, hard cookies are how the terrorists win) but he appreciated that she didn't bring up their earlier conversation. She didn't even seem upset about it anymore, which is understandable considering she is a loud and proud homosexual herself.

Dean cleans up his station and puts one of the clean shirts on, a green one, and heads to Bobby's office to grab his jacket. Bobby is already gone for the day, so he walks right in and snags it off the back of a black folding chair. He's still a bit overheated, so he leaves it unzipped.

He heads out to his Impala, which looks sleek and beautiful against the harsh white of the snow, but someone standing outside and talking on their cellphone catches his attention. He recognizes the dark, pretentiously disheveled hair immediately. Cas looks up, still talking to whoever is on the phone, and gives Dean a smile. Dean flashes a grin right back, and takes it one step further with a provocative wink.

Usually, when Dean winks at someone, they blush, or sometimes they wink back, but he's never winked at anyone and had them _laugh_ in response. Cas' face is slightly confused, giggling like he's a freaking schoolgirl. At first Dean thought Cas was laughing at something that was said on the phone, but he's staring directly at Dean. No, wait, scratch that. He's staring directly at Dean's chest.

Oh Jesus, what now?

He looks down and sees the shit-awful shirt he's wearing. Dean didn't really look at it before he put it on, he had just grabbed a few shirts that were on the bigger side, but now that he's actually seeing the logo on it, Dean wants to laugh too. Or die of embarrassment.

There's a bespectacled elephant, a monkey with a creepy smile and cymbals, and two equally disturbing dogs with guitars huddled together beneath _We're The Banana Splits!_ Where the hell did Bobby get this shirt why the fuck would he keep it?

Dean zips up his jacket as quickly as he possibly can, which isn't that fast considering his hands are cold and sore from working on vehicles all day. Of course it would happen this way, humiliating himself further in front of the hot guy he wanted to flirt with. He wouldn't be surprised if he manages to trip and face-plant into the snow on the way to his car. That would be the perfect ending to a perfect fucking day.

If there is a God, he is giving Dean a little overdue mercy. He makes it to his car and starts it without incident, stealing one last peek at Cas. He's on his phone, still, but turned in the other direction now, looking away from Dean.

Who is Dean kidding, anyway? A rich, beautiful guy like that wouldn't be interested in some scruffy street rat he caught taking it up the ass in an alley. Time to count his losses and move on.

He makes it home a little after six in the evening, which is the earliest he's been home in weeks. Dean hopes to find his dad relatively sober, because he's going to tell him the truth. Dean deserves to be able to take guys home (well, to his bedroom) considering he's the one who pays for everything. He keeps the roof over their heads and he should be allowed to do whatever he wants beneath it.

Dean walks up the faded white steps of his small, farmhouse style home, making a mental note to salt the steps so he doesn't slip on them in the morning. It's cold inside his house, which is unusual, cold enough that he has to keep his jacket on to keep from freezing. The wood burning stove is empty, explaining the lack of heat, but he worries. Why didn't his dad keep the place heated today?

Like the uneaten food, a cold house in the evening could be a dangerous sign.

He searches the house for his dad, but finds him nowhere. John's boots and coat are gone, too, and Dean starts to feel sick. Did he not come home at all today? Where the hell is he? Dean knows he fucked up big time, but his dad wouldn't leave him alone for a couple days like this. Not after the way Sam left, not when it's just the two of them to keep each other company these days. John might be a professional grade alcoholic but he's not a deserter. He's loyal to a fault, to the point of staying single all these years after Mary's death.

John wasn't a celibate saint, but he never took off his wedding ring and he never loved anyone else. He's stormed off before, more times than Dean can count, but he always came back the next morning with a reluctant, slack apology.

Dean works himself up into a full blown panic attack, gasping for breath as his heart drums wildly in his chest. He knows he's overreacting, but he can't stop his body's irrational response to the burgeoning fear, the sudden burst of doubt and despair consuming his ability to stop and think clearly. He hasn't had a panic attack like this since he first realized Sammy wasn't coming back, nearly two years ago, but this one feels so much more intense.

When Sammy left, he took Dean's joy and happiness with him, leaving him with only the unspoken words of brotherhood and camaraderie that can't speak to anyone else. If John leaves too, making Dean the last Winchester in Lawrence, his entire life's purpose is destroyed. Family is everything, and without it he has nothing.

He struggles to stay upright and drag his uncooperative body toward the cabinets where his dad keeps the liquor. Dean has to get himself under control before he passes out, and a shot of vodka should depress his system enough to calm him down. He's shaking so hard that he can barely grip the shot glass, almost dropping it twice as he pours the potent liquid, spilling it all over the place.

 _Fuck this_ , he thinks, and brings the bottle directly to his lips, swallowing a mouthful. It burns his throat on the way down like gasoline, lighting his stomach on fire. It's enough to distract him from the lack of oxygen in his system, and he can feel the vodka's effects starting to work immediately. After a few minutes, he's not shaking and he can take deep breaths. After twenty minutes, his heart has slowed to a normal pace and he can think about his problem logically.

It's barely been twenty-four hours since he and his dad got in a fight, and admittedly it was a pretty bad one. Falling asleep with a lit cigarette in his hand probably reminded him too much of why his wife is six feet beneath the Earth's surface, staring with lifeless eyes at daisy roots instead of petals. It's Dean's fault that she's dead, and his careless action could have killed them both as well. His dad probably just needs more time to calm down.

It doesn't mean Dean can't be worried, though, so he turns on the television and decides to wait up for a few more hours. At the very least, Dean can help his dad inside and to his bedroom when he gets home.

He starts a pot of coffee to help him stay awake and sober up a bit. Dean isn't a lightweight by any means, but he's never tolerated vodka that well. He's more a beer guy that occasionally gets drunk on whiskey, but that's about it.

One of the Die Hard movies is on, so Dean heats up a burrito in the microwave and pours a cup of coffee, and sets up a TV dinner tray in front of the couch. He eats his burrito with a spoonful of mayo and his coffee with a couple packets of sugar. By the time the movie is over, Dean has sobered up and John still hasn't come home.

Dean is too tired to go out driving and searching for his dad, so he takes the lazier route and decides to start calling around. He calls the Roadhouse bar first, the only bar the Winchesters step foot in, and talks to Ellen. She hasn't seen him in days, but promises to call Dean if he shows up there. He can hear Jo whining in the background, nagging her mother for the phone so she can talk to Dean, too. He laughs at that, but it feels nice. He needs the confirmation right now that some people do care about whether or not he exists.

“Hey, fucker,” Jo says, “I talked to Charlie today.”

“Christ, Jo, get directly to the point, would ya?” Dean jokes, surprisingly unashamed that she must know his secret. Jo has been the best little sister in the world, even though they're not actually related, and he starts to wonder why he was ever afraid of people finding out. If they've tolerated Dean's bullshit for this long, they probably don't care what gender he sleeps with.

“I totally knew it. I saw the way you looked at some of the guys that came into the bar, but I gotta say I always thought Sam would be the gay one. He's such a girl sometimes,” she says, and Dean can hear the smile in her voice. He doesn't like hearing or talking about Sam, so he ignores the comment, even though Sam _did_ act like an emotional girl about stuff fairly often.

“I'm not gay,” Dean corrects, wondering if trying to explain it is pointless or not, “If anything, I'm bisexual. I still like girls, you know.”

“Hey, speaking of your flaming homosexuality, there's a super good looking stud here asking about you. He saw your picture on our wall and he hasn't exactly been subtle about it.” Jo sounds annoyed at that, then says, “figures all the hot ones are gay.”

“Ha ha,” he intones, curious about his not-so-secret admirer, “what's he look like?”

He hears a muffled static on the phone, along with the garbled bar noises of patrons drinking and talking. Dean figures Jo is getting a better look at this mystery man.

“He's got dark hair, not sure if it's brown or black, and blue eyes. Oh, and he looks like a blue-blooded asshole with a fancy trench coat,” she says, and it strikes Dean as hilarious that they both think so much alike. He knows exactly who she's talking about, and he does have that intimidating blue-blood look about him. Normally he's put off by preppy guys, but for some reason Cas really turns him on.

“Ah, yeah, I'm working on that guy's car at the garage. He's got a freaking Chevelle, Jo. It's a Z16, can you believe that?”

Jo gasps, then lets out a frustrated grunt. “You need to sleep with this man, Dean. Bone him for both of us. Let me live vicariously through your sexual prowess.”

“Gross, Jo!” Dean laughs, then says, “fine, but give him my number, 'kay? I'll let you know if he calls me. I gotta get off the phone, though. Still need to call Bobby to check if he's seen my dad.”

“Roger that. Can I put little X's and O's beneath your phone number? Perhaps a crudely drawn penis with curly pubes?”

“At least make it a big dick, alright? Don't want him to think the merchandise is low quality. And for your information, I keep it shaved.”

“Whoa there, cowboy, a little too much information. Gonna have nightmares now,” she groans, then hangs up the phone.

Dean's not sure what he would do without Jo. So few people in his life are as dirty minded as he is, and it's great not having to censor himself around her. They don't spend a lot of time together though, not after she confessed her feelings for him and he didn't reciprocate. Dean still feels bad about that, but he sees Jo as a sister, not a romantic interest. Whenever she does find a guy, Dean's convinced he'll never be good enough, no matter who he is.

Dean takes a quick shower before calling Bobby, washing off the grease and dirt from his irritated skin. He's a little nervous to call Bobby, unsure of what he might say about today's enlightening experience, so he rehearses a few lines in his head to prepare for the phone call. The hot water relaxes him, and slipping on a clean pair of sweats makes him feel like a new man.

It's late by the time he finally gets around to calling him.

“I'm trying to sleep, kid, this better be important,” Bobby grumbles. Dean is actually glad he waited until later to call him, he'll probably be too tired to ask any personal questions.

“Have you seen my dad? He hasn't been home since last night, and he's not at the bar. I'm not sure where he might be.”

“Sorry son, I haven't seen him either. John's a damn idgit sometimes,” he says, then yawns. He can hear Jody in the background asking who's on the phone.

“Hey, I thought I was the idgit,” Dean jokes, trying to lighten the mood of the conversation.

“Ain't that the definition of Winchester? He's Idgit One, you're Idgit Two.”

“Okay, okay, touche old man. You win,” he relents, then remembers Bobby's wife is a sheriff. If anyone can find John, it would be her. “Can you ask Jody to keep an eye out for him? See if she hears anything at the station tomorrow?”

“Sure, kid,” Bobby says, and Dean thinks he's about to hang up after a few beats of silence. Instead, Bobby sighs and says, “I gotta ask you somethin' and I don't need an elaborate answer. It's too late for this crap but I'm gonna worry about you unless I know.”

Well, here it comes. Dean thought he was actually going to escape this part of the conversation, and he wishes he had hung up when he had the chance. But then again, this is Bobby, and Dean knows he can trust him not to be careless with his feelings. “Shoot,” he says, prompting Bobby to speak.

“You're not...you know, switching teams 'cause of what happened with Lisa, are you? I know she broke you, I just didn't know how badly,” he reveals, and Dean can hear the discomfort in his voice. He's not sure if he's offended by the question, because he knows Bobby means well, but to be called a broken person kinda hurts. Dean knows he's been a shell of a man since he found the note she left on the dining table, but he thought he was hiding it pretty well. Apparently not.

“No, Bobby. I was with guys before I ever met Lisa, and I'm not broken.”

“Coulda fooled me. I'll let you know if I see him and I'll pass along the message to Jody. Get some sleep, Idgit Two,” then the phone clicks, and their conversation is over.

Dean seriously doubts he's going to get any sleep tonight, but he's going to give it his best shot for Bobby's sake. Dean doesn't want him to worry needlessly if he shows up for work tomorrow tired and deflated, or lecture him about the importance of a full eight hours when he knows damn well Dean barely manages five or six.

He's showered, eaten, and made the necessary phone calls. There's nothing left for him to do tonight except sleep, but he supposes if he was bothered or ambitious enough, he could get in his Impala and go out looking for his dad. But if John isn't at Bobby's garage or Ellen's Roadhouse, he really doesn't know where else to look. His dad doesn't exactly have a social life, he's practically a cave dwelling hermit for his complete lack of human interaction.

John has Dean, and Dean does everything John needs and more. Maybe that makes Dean an enabler, but he doesn't care. He can't change his dad, and at this stage of the game there's no point in trying.

That's part of the reason Sammy left, isn't it? The last thing Sam said to him before climbing into that fucking taxi was that he couldn't sit around anymore watching Dean help kill their father. That, and not to call. Ever.

Sammy had a point, but Dean didn't want to accept it. Taking care of his family was all Dean knew how to do, no real marketable skills or social connections to offer him independence. Sammy was the smart one with a one-way ticket to success and freedom, destined to make something of himself from the moment he was born, but Dean's destiny had been written in concrete on his fourth birthday. The day he caused his mother's death.

It's that guilt that keeps him here now, tethered to John's slow, alcoholic demise. It's that guilt that reminds Dean why he doesn't deserve more, or better, and why the people he loves always end up leaving him behind. Poetic justice, that's what it is. He took away John's true love and Sammy's chance at a normal life. Two things Dean will never be allowed to have.

He crawls into his cold, stiff bed, curling up to keep warm while the wood burning stove makes a gallant effort to counteract the Kansas winter chill. If his dad still isn't home by the time he's off work tomorrow, he'll go out looking for him. At the very least, Dean hopes John will show up at the garage or the bar, and he'll get a phone call letting him know his dad is okay.

Dean isn't sure how much time passes while he drifts in and out of a dreamless sleep, waking up every so often at the slightest groan or creak the old farmhouse makes. He can't suppress the anxious race of his heart every time he hears something, wishing it was the sound of his dad coming in through the front door or kicking the snow off his boots.

The next time he wakes, it's from the sound of his cellphone ringing. Led Zeppelin's Ramble On echoes in his room from the phone's frustratingly low quality speaker. He checks to screen to see who it is, but instead of a familiar name is says Unknown Number, and Dean debates on whether or not to answer it. Everyone he knows is saved as a contact in his phone, and no one would block their number when calling him anyway.

At first he thinks it might be his dad calling from another person's phone instead of his cellphone, but he pushes that thought away immediately. John doesn't know anyone that Dean doesn't know too and if it were a hospital or police station calling, it would show the number.

Then he remembers that he told Jo to give Cas his number, and Cas seems like he might be snobby enough to make his phone number private. Excitement coils like a spring in his belly, but it's quickly washed away by apprehensive unease. Dean could answer, he could end up talking to and flirting with Cas, and maybe it would even lead to something more. But right now he doesn't feel like he deserves to accept that. Cas is too good for him anyway, and eventually he will leave. They all leave in the end.

Dean lets the phone ring until it stops, giving the person a chance to leave a voice mail. That's all Dean has the balls to do tonight, just to listen to whatever message someone wants to leave for him. Jesus Christ, he's way more pathetic than he thought.

Whoever it was doesn't leave a voice mail. Dean figures it's because he doesn't even deserve that little gesture.

He doesn't deserve anything at all.  


	3. Chapter 3

When Dean wakes, it's with a throbbing headache and a sour, troubled feeling in his gut.

His cellphone's alarm clock is blaring an eerie chirping tune instead of Black Dog, the same song he's woken up to for the last four years or so, and if Dean were a superstitious man he would have seen it as some kind of sign. If God wanted him to rise and shine, his cellphone would have played his tried and true Zeppelin tune instead of an awful, annoying preset.

But, like most proletarian Americans, he has to work. Fortunately for Dean, he's always liked the job enough to drag himself out of bed and arrive on time, sometimes even presentable, but that fortune doesn't extend itself to today. He's still sprawled on his bed, one hand clumsily searching for the button on his phone that will make the abominable chirping stop, and Dean already has a feeling that today's not going to be his day.

It's a weirdly deep, unsettling feeling that Dean can't seem to shake. He tries to tell himself that it's only because John still hasn't come home and he's worried, nothing more, but the string of reassurances he keeps repeating in his head do nothing to settle his nerves.

Having grown up in a series of studio apartments, dry cabins and motel rooms, Dean grew accustomed to sharing beds and tight spaces, with the sound of snoring or heavy breathing always nearby to lull him to sleep. As he grew older and sharing a bed became less comfortable, he learned how to cope without the extra body heat beside him that kept him warm (and safe, but that's another bit of information no one else needs to know) so Dean attributes the sinking sensation in his gut to the fact that he's been in a house alone for pretty much the first time in his life. Maybe it's not an ominous feeling at all, but loneliness.

He uses that thought to speed up his morning routine, eager to get to the garage so he can be around some familiar faces. Dean skips the hair gel for today, instead opting to rake his fingers through his blonde-brown hair in lieu of a comb, and doesn't bother shaving his shadow of stubble. He does put on some deodorant and brush his teeth (he's not a complete neanderthal) then slips on his favorite t-shirt. It's just a plain, dark red shirt, faded from use, but it's soft and comfortable and usually earns him a handful of compliments.

Dean arrives at Bobby's garage a full twenty minutes before the start of his shift, but figures he can enjoy a cup of coffee in the small break room until he's allowed to clock on. Or, he can enjoy a cup of coffee while shamelessly staring at the Z16 like a virile teenager looking at his first skin mag. The car is already being close to finished, so his ogling days are numbered.

Charlie is inside the break room, chewing on a bite of cinnamon roll that smells absolutely orgasmic. Dean forgets about pouring himself a cup of coffee as he sits beside her at the wobbly round table and makes pleading puppy eyes.

“Want some, Winchester?” She pushes the glaze-covered pastry in his direction, and wastes no time tearing off a piece and shoving it into his mouth. Sweet merciful Jesus, it's hot and soft and practically melting. If he's not mistaken, Dean's also pretty sure he can hear the cinnamon roll calling him Big Daddy.

Charlie halfheartedly chuckles, then dismissively waves her hand at Dean and the food, letting him know he can have the rest of it. He takes a massive bite and moans appreciatively at the way it dances perfectly on his taste buds. Charlie sighs, pulling Dean out of his indulgent affair with the glaze on he's licking off his fingertips. He looks up and sees that she's clearly in a bad mood, practically moping and fuming at the same time, which is completely out of character for his terminally cheery best friend.

It's then that Dean notices her red hair is tied back in a messy bun, her face completely free of makeup and none of her usual rings are ornamenting her fingers. Even her Lego necklace is missing and Dean can't think of a time he's ever seen her without it.

“What's wrong, Bradbury?” Dean asks, shoving the rest of the roll in his mouth.

Her head drops to the table in a dramatic fashion. “Gilda broke up with me.”

“Holy shit,” he blurts, mouth still full of sticky goodness. He doesn't want to be done with the deliciousness already, but friendship trumps food so he quickly chews and swallows it down. Charlie just grumbles in agreement, turning her head slightly so she can look in Dean's direction. “I mean, wow, I'm sorry Char, really. Haven't you guys been together, what, ten years?”

“Yeah,” Charlie groans, then pushes a plastic fork towards Dean. “Kill me with this, please.”

He tries hard not to laugh, but it doesn't work so well. Dean hurts for his best friend (really, he does) but he's secretly relieved that this might be why he had such a terrible feeling in his gut this morning, and not something that could be a million times worse. He takes the fork between his fingers and snaps off one of the tines, tossing it into the trash. “There are better ways to die, you know. Death by utensil isn't exactly something you'd put on your headstone.”

“Shut it, Dean. Why can't you be one of those guys that watches romantic comedies and gets pedicures? The only cure for this is the magic of a slumber party between two gay best friends,” she intones, lifting her head off the table and making puppy eyes, her lower lip puffed and pouting.

“I'm not – no, just because I sleep with guys doesn't mean I'm a chick. You should ask Jo.”

“Jo isn't my best friend. Jo isn't gay, or magical. Come on, Winchester, you owe me!” Charlie whines, reaching out and clutching at the sleeve of his leather jacket. Dean plucks another tine from the fork, then pops it in his mouth and chews on it like a toothpick.

He ignores the fact that Charlie keeps calling him gay (he's _not_ gay, dammit) choosing instead to focus on the way she's desperately pleading for his company, despite his history of not being Mr. Fun in social situations. But she's right, Dean does owe her for so much, especially after she stayed with him for almost a week after Sammy left, and she's only asking for a single night. He relents with a sigh.

“I'm magical?”

“Yes!” Charlie insists, a flicker of light returning to her eyes, “you're like a majestic unicorn, Dean, with glitter in your hair and sequins for eyes. You shit rainbows and Lucky Charms and I just want to ride you into the sunset.”

“Charlie!” Dean sputters, almost choking on the plastic on his mouth. He knows she didn't mean _ride him_ ride him, but he can't stop the image of Charlie bouncing up and down on his dick from flashing through his mind. He's got to derail that train of thought before it develops into an unhealthy, suppressed desire to fuck his lesbian best friend.

Charlie gives him a slightly humored, mostly devious look, completely aware of what she said and how she said it. Dean really needs to put the breaks on this particular conversation before it ends with one or both of them feeling awkward and uncomfortable, so he changes the subject, again, saying, “Okay, but why's it gotta be Lucky Charms? Can it be Crunch Berries or something slightly more delicious?”

She rolls her eyes and half-asses a shrug. “I don't care, Dean, I've never felt that passionate about cereal. You can shit whatever you want.”

“Good, 'cause sometimes Lucky Charms makes me feel a little murderous. They play it up like some kind of sweet, marvelous adventure for your taste buds, when it's really just ninety percent flavorless oat pieces. I might as well be a unicorn that shits lies and discontent.”

“Well now that you two have... _that_ settled,” Bobby interrupts, groaning, “how 'bout you get your asses up and get to work?”

Dean and Charlie both jump up, startled, tripping over themselves and giggling like idiots. Bobby mutters something under his breath and pours himself a cup of coffee, after having to step over the two snickering bodies still laying on the floor, then returns to his office. Charlie gets up first, then grabs Dean's arm and pulls him up. He's barely on his feet more than two seconds before he's shoved out the door as well.

A few hours later, Dean is working dutifully on the still-beautiful Z16, torn between taking his time to make the experience last or knocking it out quickly to keep up Bobby's reputation for efficient service. It would be unethical to draw out the process so that it takes a couple extra days, especially since Bobby charges by the day on longer projects, but that Castiel guy probably has somewhere he wants the car to be.

He decides on getting it done somewhere in the middle (just one extra day won't hurt anyone) so despite knowing he could get the Z16 finished today, he settles on finishing it up tomorrow. It really is a gorgeous piece of machinery and maybe he can sneak a picture of it on his phone later when no one is looking.

Speaking of his phone, Dean has been checking it every ten minutes since he first showed up at work, and he hasn't received a single call or text from anyone about his dad. He knows he only asked a few people to keep an eye out for him, but John's scruffy mug must have shown up somewhere by now. He doesn't want to, but he should probably start calling around to local hospitals, just in case.

His brain, being the evil bitch that it is, immediately begins thinking about all the possible worst-case scenarios that John could be in. Maybe the reason no one knows where he's at is because he was horribly disfigured in an accident _and_ in a coma, making him unrecognizable and unable to tell people who he is.

Or, John realized that Dean is incapable of helping him in any way, and left to go find someone that could. Someone less of a monumental waste of space. Like Sam.

As his mind continues to drown him with thoughts of betrayal and abandonment, someone approaches the car with steps so hesitant that Dean barely hears them. He rolls out from under the car on his creeper board, hoping to see Bobby with news about his dad, but sees Castiel instead.

It's nearly impossible not to stare at Castiel's eyes, especially when he's staring right back with an intensity that Dean can't match. Dean blushes a little under the gaze, then remembers the last time he saw Cas and blushes a hell of a lot more. He had winked at him while wearing the world's most flamboyant shirt, and Cas laughed. Dean forgets what the fuck he's supposed to be doing and rolls back under the car without saying anything, like an idiot.

Cas lowers himself to the ground and sits on the dirty cement, close enough that Dean could kick his leg out and touch him. Dean tries to make himself look busy for a moment, if for no other reason than to not look completely foolish for sliding back under the raised car, but still manages to get an eyeful of a dressed-down Castiel Novak.

He can't remember exactly what Cas was wearing yesterday, but Dean's pretty sure it was something pompous and preppy to match his prodigious name and affluence. Today, Cas is wearing loose, faded denim and a snug t-shirt that shows off his lithe, athletic build. He bets Cas got that kind of body from playing lacrosse or squash or fencing, whatever it is fancy people pass off as sports.

Wow, Dean really needs to work on his stereotyping. The guy is in jeans and a t-shirt, for fuck's sake. Maybe he's not so pompous after all. It's also possible that Dean has some kind of rich-nerdy guy kink that is just beginning to show itself at the worst possible time.

“Hello, Dean,” Cas says, with a voice like audible chocolate, “how is the Chevelle coming along?”

Christ on a cracker, did this guy go to some professional speaking school? Not only does he sound like his vocal chords are made of whiskey and smooth-cut granite, the way he enunciates each word with clarity like a master orator makes Dean wonder what Cas would sound like reciting the alphabet around his dick.

That thought, combined with the accidental image of Charlie saddling up and riding him like a rodeo queen, has made for a very frustrating day for Dean's jeans. There's only so much they can do to stop from tenting every time his imagination gets the best of him.

“Uh, hey Cas. It's doing pretty good, should be done by tomorrow,” Dean finally replies, his voice shakier than he'd like it to be. There's no way he'll ever sound as good as Cas does when he speaks, so he doesn't bother trying to sound more masculine or smooth. He can't pretend to be fiddling around with car parts anymore, not now that Cas can pretty much see everything he's doing, so he wipes his hands on his jeans and rolls out from under the car...again.

Cas is grinning at Dean when he sits up, and for a moment they're both just sitting there staring at each other. Dean gives an awkward smile back (what else are you supposed to do when a stunning man is mere inches from your face) and a light pink flush spreads across Cas' face and ears.

Dean doesn't care that he's in a workplace or that Cas is a customer, he's so tempted to lean forward and lick the blood-flushed skin on his neck, to taste the heat radiating from Cas' flesh. He's already done it in his head, played out the whole scenario that victoriously leads to a mind-blowing sexcapade right here on the garage floor, but then it occurs to him that Cas might not even be gay or single. Just because Dean thinks he's hot doesn't mean he's actually available or interested. The guy is so socially awkward that a blush or thorough eye-fucking could mean something entirely different.

Plus, there's still a very annoying cricket somewhere in Dean's heart, whispering _DadSammyLisa DadSammyLisa DadSammyLisa_ on repeat, a nagging reminder that he's already got enough _toomuch_ on his plate. He doesn't understand why his conscience only appears like this around certain people, so maybe his subconscious sees something he can't. Maybe it knows that one time with Cas would never be enough, and this is a preemptive strike against potential pain.

Jiminy did the same damn thing when he met Lisa, and everyone knows how well that turned out.

Dean breaks their staring with a jerk of his head, standing and nearly losing his balance. He'd been laying on his back on the creeper for too long and stood up too quickly, making him dizzy and a little sick. He wobbles like a goddamn foal, and a pair of hands clutch at his waist to steady him. The blood returns to his head and he's regained his footing, but the hands on his waist (no, now they're on his hips) remain where they are.

They're Cas' hands, because no one else was even around them, and holy crap this is bad. Cas' grip sent bolts of _yespleasemore_ straight to his dick and he's pretty sure the tent he's pitching could house ten or twelve people.

Before he can think it through, and because he's such a lame asshole, Dean turns and pushes Cas off of him. It's not hard enough to do any damage or even send him falling backwards, like he did to John, but it gets the message across. Cas drops his hands immediately, turning bright red and muttering profuse apologies.

Dean storms off, thoroughly embarrassed, and goes to find Bobby. If he had any cigarettes left, he'd smoke a whole pack of them to calm his nerves, but nothing turns Dean off faster than looking at and listening to Bobby and he needs an emergency dick-softening like right now.

He blows right past Charlie, who clasps her hands over her mouth to stifle a laugh before looking toward the Z16, where Cas is still redder than roses. Dean knocks on Bobby's office door and barely gives the man a chance to reply before he's opening the door and practically crashing into the chair.

Bobby looks up from his paperwork, his eyes widening with what Dean assumes to be fear or confusion or both. He can't blame the man, since the last time Dean was in his office they were having a less than pleasant discussion about sex and consent.

“Well if it ain't Sally the Magical Unicorn,” Bobby starts, setting his papers down, “what can I do for ya?”

Dean can hear Charlie laughing her ass off just outside the door, and if he weren't so desperate for a boner-killer right now he'd totally go out there and shut her up himself. But as it stands, Dean really is desperate, and so far being called a unicorn again is doing the job.

Then he thinks of Cas, how equally embarrassed he must have been to turn that red, flushed and nervous, and if it's anything like how Cas looks after an intense and exhaustive fucking.

Dean's got to step it up a notch.

“You hear anything about my dad yet?” Dean asks, bringing a hand to his mouth, absentmindedly chewing on a thumbnail.

Bobby's expression changes to something more like worry or sympathy as he adjusts the cap on his head. “Sorry kid, no. Got Jody looking around today while she's on patrol, and made a few calls to some friends around the area,” he starts, looking absently out the office window, “we'll find him.”

“What if we don't?” It's out of Dean's mouth before he realizes he's said it out loud, but Bobby doesn't let him correct himself.

“Don't worry, Dean, your daddy ain't gunna be missin' forever. He's not the kinda man that just takes off and never returns. That's more Sa—” Bobby cuts himself off, but it's too late. Dean knows exactly what he was going to say.

_That's more Sam's style._

Yeah, Dean figures he knows that truth pretty well. Sammy left and never came back. Never called, never wrote, never let anyone know how to contact him. John has plenty of faults, but he'd never do that.

Until now, anyway. He thought the same thing about Lisa once upon a time too, even confided in her how much it hurt that Sam would betray him and their friends like that, until the day she vanished from his life with nothing to remember her by, except the lighter in his pocket and the goodbye letter she wrote and left for him to find. Naturally, Dean lit the letter on fire with the lighter and then clung to the Zippo like it was the only thing keeping him grounded in reality.

Sammy left everything behind. Dean still shares a bedroom with a shrine of Sam's belongings and he can't bring himself to get rid of any of it. At first, he convinced himself that Sam would want his stuff when he came back, but that was over two years ago and Sammy doesn't seem to miss any of it.

Well, boner-killing mission accomplished.

There's another knock on the door, a gentle tapping, and Bobby looks at Dean as if asking for permission to let someone in. Dean responds by calling the person in, surprised to see Cas entering and still rose-red with embarrassment.

“I want to apologize to Dean for my behavior,” Cas says, his eyes darting back and forth between both Bobby and Dean, “I am sorry for touching you, especially in that particular area of your body. I crossed a line and I'm hoping you will forgive me.”

Bobby's eyebrows nearly jump into his hairline, caught off-guard by Cas' weird apology and confession combination, then gives Dean one of those _what-the-hell-is-going-on_ looks. Dean doesn't know what to make it of either, then realizes Cas must be talking about the reason Dean needed to kill his erection in the first place.

“No, no, it's all cool, Cas. I was falling and you helped me out. I appreciate it,” Dean says, but he can tell Cas doesn't believe in the olive branch he's extending, “really, thanks. Don't worry about it.”

Cas nods, and Dean hopes that's the end of the awkward encounters that have been happening in Bobby's office lately. He rises from the chair and motions for Cas to join him back out in the garage. Cas smiles at Bobby, who looks positively flummoxed, and trails behind Dean with a safe distance between them.

“I really am sorry,” Cas repeats, slowly catching up to Dean.

“I meant what I said, Cas, it's not a big deal. Nothing to apologize for.”

They make it back to the garage where the Z16 is lifted off the ground and waiting for Dean's talented touch. Cas takes the seat against the wall, looking a little more neutral and relaxed now that he has Dean's unnecessary forgiveness.

He doesn't usually have people watching him while he works, since most customers just drop off their vehicles and come back when it's done, but Dean knows that the Z16 is a rare, truly special car, and can't blame Cas for wanting to stay and watch.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Yes, you can,” Cas replies, and it's so formal that it almost makes Dean uncomfortable. Cas is one of the most seductive looking guys he's ever seen, but he talks like a ninety year old dude with a stick up his ass.

“Where did you get this car? I mean, they're just so rare and I've seen people try to pass off fake ones before, but this is the first time I've ever seen the real deal in person. It's in great condition with a custom paint job, too, and I'd be willing to bet it's the only gunmetal gray Z16 out there.” Dean has to stop himself from rambling too much, but he can't help how excited he gets when cars are the topic of conversation, especially about extraordinary cars like this.

“Oh,” Cas says, looking slightly disappointed. Was he expecting a different question? “I inherited this car from my father. Well, technically it was given to me by my eldest brother. He inherited it from our father, and when he no longer wanted it, he gave it to me. I needed a vehicle, and this car was unused.”

It's probably the single lamest story Dean has ever heard. He tries not to let his boredom show on his face, but seriously, what kind of story is that? A car like this deserves a back story fit for the cinema, it deserves to be loved and have adventures - kind of like Dean's Baby. A dull story about family inheritance simply isn't doing it justice.

Dean can think of a few ways to spice up this sexy car's life, but reins himself in. Not his car, not his boyfriend, not his problem.

“Ah, okay,” Dean says in acknowledgment, trying to make himself sound more excited about Cas' explanation than he really is.

“I suppose it is an abuse of power to have such a car but no interest in owning it, but I cannot pretend to a love a car that holds no special meaning to me. I barely knew my father, and much of my family has disowned me in recent years, but I accepted their generosity nonetheless. I should feel fortunate that they were willing to help me at all considering the circumstances, but sometimes I look at this car and feel nothing but resentment.”

Cas was leaning forward in the chair, his hands beneath his chin keeping his head propped up. He was looking in Dean's direction but not quite _at_ Dean, watching an old memory unfold that must have been a difficult one for him to go through. He recognizes the look on Cas' face, something between loss and betrayal and sadness, and wonders at the possible scenarios behind his brief, vague explanation.

Dean knows exactly what Cas means, too, about looking at a family vehicle and feeling nothing but a deep bitterness at the memories it brings. He'd never admit it, but it happens to Dean more often than not. His Baby, once John's Impala long before he passed it on to his first born son, is so crammed full of memories and reminders that there's barely any room for the occasional passenger to fit in. Images of Mom, Sammy, Lisa, and even Dad back before he started drinking flood his periphery every time he drives it. But he would never get rid of Baby, no matter how many times he thinks he sees Sam laughing in the seat beside him from the corner of his eye, or Lisa singing along to Motorhead when it's dark and the streetlamps play tricks with the light.

“Tell you what – if you ever think about selling her, or getting rid of her for any reason, you let me know first, okay? I can definitely relate to what you're saying, but it would be a shame for a classic like this to end up in the wrong hands,” Dean smiles, trying to lighten the mood. There's enough shit going on today and he doesn't need any more negative vibes drenching the garage.

“Certainly, Dean. If I didn't need her for work, I'd probably just give her to you for free. You know far more about cars than I ever will. I might accidentally set the car ablaze while trying to wash it, or something.”

Cas smiles back, and Dean almost can't believe that the posh, professionally speaking guy sitting near him actually tried to make a joke. Dean laughs at the awkward cuteness, and the weird tension between them seems to melt away. He can almost forget that this is the same guy who caught him in the alley with Benny. Almost.

“So what do you do for work, Cas? If you don't mind me asking,” Dean says, getting back to work on the Z16. He can't stop working on it completely to have a conversation, but he can sure as hell go extra slow and use the situation to his advantage. If he's lucky, there's a chance he can stretch the work into another day beyond tomorrow if Cas sticks around enough to talk.

“I don't mind at all, Dean. I graduated from the University of Kansas a couple of years ago, in Kansas City. I was working in the Liberal Arts department there, but my family thought it would be best to transfer me to the campus here in Lawrence. My degree is in Religious Studies, so I can work at any school or campus that offers that program.”

Dean won't admit it, but he's still a little confused about what exactly Cas does for a living. He's not sure what it means to work at a university (is he a teacher or something?) and he knows next to nothing about religion or religious studies. He doesn't want to risk sounding dull and unintelligent, so he keeps his confusion to himself. Dean is also morbidly curious about Cas' family situation, but figures it's impolite to ask about those kind of things. This is the first real conversation they've had and Dean is actually fully clothed, so he wants to keep the conversation cordial.

“That's pretty cool, man. Must be smart to have a job at KU.”

“Or just well connected.”

Yikes. Okay, so maybe Cas isn't humble at all despite his outfit choice for the day. Dean's not sure why he expected anything different, but now he guesses that whatever family drama Cas has going on, it's probably about trust funds or off shore bank accounts.

Dean bites the inside of his cheek to keep from saying something stupid. Why is he so offended by Cas, anyway? It's not like Cas has actively done anything to hurt him (the exact opposite, actually) or been anything other than annoyingly polite. Dean has just never liked rich, stuck up assholes. Having to grow up without plenty of food or new clothes, a different bed every week and being raised out of the back of a car made him hatefully jealous of people like Cas. Dean is a Greaser, and Cas is a Soc. He can't help it.

Cas must sense the sudden unease emanating from Dean, because he continues, “What I mean to say is I did not want the job at the university, but it was either that or work at the family church. I didn't get to pick my degree but I was allowed to pick, to some extent, my profession.”

It seems that some things bridge the gap between socioeconomic divides, like putting family first. Cas could have told his family to fuck off, but instead he studied what he didn't want to and works where he doesn't like to keep up the family unity. Dean can respect that. After all, that's pretty much the story of Dean's life - protect Sammy and make dad proud, even if it meant sacrificing what he really wanted.

“So your family runs a church? That sounds a little intense,” Dean comments, more curious about Cas' life now that he knows they have a few things in common. He realizes, though, that if Cas' family runs a church and he went to school for religious studies, then he's pretty much guaranteed to be straight. If there was even a little hint of homosexuality in Cas, he'd be so closeted anyway from years of being told he'd go to hell for it that he might as well give up any hope of getting in Cas' pants.

“Yes, it was. Fortunately I am no longer obliged to attend. Or rather, it has been made clear to me that I am no longer allowed to, not until I've repented for my sinful ways.”

The look on Cas' face is so nonchalant and deadpan that it almost makes Dean laugh. Obviously Cas isn't bothered by his excommunication, and Dean can't blame him. He'd only gone to church a few times with Bobby and Jody, but he hated every minute of it. Free will, baby, that's what the Winchester name is all about.

“Sinful ways, huh? I'm sorry man, that doesn't sound too fun.”

“Oh, it is. I rather enjoy being a homosexual.”

Dean smiles way, way too big. He certainly wasn't expecting _that_ , but now the outlook on his future is looking considerably brighter. “Right on, Cas. Me too.”

Their conversation continues for the next couple of hours, as Dean works slowly but steadily on the Chevelle. Cas loosens up a bit over the course of their banter, sounding slightly less uptight and proper the closer they got to the end of the work day. Dean enjoyed it so much that he forgot about his missing father, his estranged brother, and his deserting ex-fiancee.

Dean learned all about Cas' older brothers, including one that left to escape the religious tyranny, and Cas' younger sister, Anna. They're all named after angels, but Cas has the most obscure name. He thinks it's because he was the youngest son and his mother ran out of the 'common' angel names by that point, but it doesn't bother him. People remember him, he says, and while that's not always a good thing, it's better than being forgotten.

Cas was home-schooled, which doesn't surprise Dean in the slightest. He knew there must have been a legitimate reason for the peculiar way Cas speaks, so it makes sense that he was raised primarily inside the four walls of his religious home with very little outside influence. Dean thought that kind of childhood must have been lonely, but Cas insisted it wasn't. He, Gabriel and Anna were practically best friends until Gabriel left and Anna disapproved of his sexual orientation.

On the bright side, being sent to Lawrence meant more freedom for Cas, and he doesn't actually start working until the start of the fall semester, which is eight or nine months away. As far as Cas is concerned, he has the better part of a year to do whatever he wants without his family breathing down his neck or nagging him to repent. It must be nice, Dean thinks, to have that kind of opportunity.

Dean will probably be working minimum wage at the garage until the day he dies, and he's already come to terms with that. It's not a bad gig, and it keeps the roof over his head. That's all Dean really needs, anyway.

It's finally the end of Dean's shift (technically about thirty minutes over, he was distracted by the way Cas' lips move when he talks) but he's not ready to say goodbye to him. It's not just that Cas is ridiculously good looking, it's also the way Dean is able to forget about all the bad shit going on when he's around, which is ironic considering the less-than-conventional way they met.

They're standing awkwardly at the door after Dean clocks out, and he hates feeling this weird and nervous. He lifts his hand to wave goodbye, if for no other reason than to end the strange stand-still, when Cas reaches out and clutches the front of Dean's jacket, pulling him closer.

He's not really sure what to do, because once Cas had grabbed him and pulled him into his own personal bubble, he didn't say or do anything else. It was such a confusing turn on to be this close and yet unable to do anything about it for fear of reading the situation wrong. Cas seemed to be deliberating something, a hesitant flick of his tongue wetting his lips, then took a step back and released his hold on Dean.

“I would like to take you on a date sometime, Dean.”

Holy shit, yes, that sounds like an amazing idea. Dean would very much like to jump on that opportunity immediately. Right now. Post haste.

But Dean isn't quite as suave or forward as Cas seems to be, the eloquent motherfucker, so all that comes out is a shy, almost squeaky, “Uh, yeah, sure.”

Cas smiles, like _really_ smiles, and dear baby Jesus it is glorious.

“Not tonight, mister! You're mine,” Charlie sings, approaching them and hooking an arm around Dean's. She looks positively pleased for interrupting Dean's conversation, and he wonders how long she was listening in. She can be a sneaky little bastard when she wants to, and he doesn't doubt for a second that she waited for this exact moment to make an appearance.

Cas' smile fades minutely, but he looks no less happy. Dean blushes like a schoolgirl and wants to kick himself for it, but that would look a little creepy given his current situation. Instead, he gives Charlie his best sarcastic grin and thanks her for being so on top of his schedule.

“Here is my number,” Cas says, handing Dean a business card that looks a little intimidating. He accepts it and shoves it in his back pocket. Charlie is tugging on his arm to get going, so Dean gives Cas a final smile and finishes the goodbye wave he started earlier. Cas nods, pulling out his phone to call someone.

When Dean and Charlie are inside the Impala, Dean scowls. “You're such a cock block sometimes.”

“Hey, I called dibs on you first. He can have your magical unicorn ass another night. I need me some Dean, okay?” She laughs, poking his arm.

“Fine, just stop calling me a fucking unicorn, seriously. Even Bobby is doing it now.”

“I heard. That was pure comedic _gold_. Hearing Bobby call you Sally the Unicorn has been the highlight of my life.”

“Shuddup.”

Charlie lives in an apartment near the garage, close enough that she's able to walk to work and back without freezing her ass off. Dean really likes Charlie's place, it's a small one bedroom but awesome. The walls are decorated with movie and propaganda posters, and the living room has three tall bookshelves filled with the best movies and video games available. She has every console known to man, including a sweet-ass original SNES, and she's skilled enough that she can kick his ass on every single one of them.

Normally when Dean spends time at Charlie's apartment, it's so they can fight to the death on first-person shooter games or debate which actor played James Bond the best, but he knows that tonight is going to be a lot less fun than that. They will probably watch a lame romantic comedy, Dean will pass the tissues as needed and then they'll end the night with Dean giving her a foot rub or a pep talk or both. Then again, Charlie has been in a relationship with Gilda since he's known her, so he's never had to help her through a break up before.

They make their way inside and hang up their jackets in the little closet, kicking off their shoes and locking the door behind them. Dean can tell something is up pretty quickly, because Charlie has that look on her face like she's pulled off a major heist.

Oh crap.

“Gilda didn't break up with you, did she?”

Charlie bites her bottom lip, then scurries off like a rodent into the kitchen, reaching into the fridge for a couple of beers. Dean takes one and sits at her little square dining table.

“No...but don't be mad, please! It was the only way I could think of to get you to come over,” she says, sitting down at the table beside him, propping her feet up on his lap. He rolls his eyes when she wiggles her toes.

“If you tricked me into coming here just so I would rub your damn feet, I'll shove ice cubes down your pants.”

“Dean, be serious. I barely slept at all last night because I've been so worried about you, and if I tried to bring this up anywhere else, you would just cut me off or walk away or something. Please, talk to me,” she begs, turning the unopened beer bottle in her hand.

Dean takes a deep breath before popping off the bottle cap with his ring. “Only if you buy me a pack of cigarettes.”

“Yes!” She cheers, bouncing her knees up and down in victory. She makes a quick dash into the kitchen and pulls a few packs out of the drawer, then tosses them at Dean. He catches them one at a time, thrilled that they're his favorite brand. “Okay,” she says, sitting back down at the table, “first off, why didn't you tell me you're gay?”

Dean almost regrets agreeing to this already, but he doesn't want to forfeit the sweet promise of nicotine in his hands. The truth is that he's not really sure why he never told anyone, other than the vague fear of rejection or something. It just felt too personal to share, like he wanted that one thing to be his alone, something no one else could touch or take. But that's a weird way at looking at your own sexuality, he figures, so he fesses up.

“I don't know, Charlie, I just wasn't sure how people would take it, I guess. Plus it's kinda hard to explain, since I'm not really gay or straight. I like both, you know? But when people hear you're into both genders they kinda get weird about it.”

“But Dean, _I'm gay_. Trust me, I know coming out of the closet isn't the easiest thing to do, but come on! You should have known _I_ wouldn't judge you for something like that.”

Yeah, Dean knows she's right. He should have trusted her with that information.

For a long time, not telling anyone allowed Dean to pretend like it wasn't real, like the harmless flirting or lingering stares in the boy's locker room meant nothing. But high school was a long time ago, and the flirting and staring never stopped. It evolved into whatever he has now, and it's kind of hard to deny being attracted to men when he lets them fuck him in alleys or backseats or motel beds.

“Sorry,” he says, but doesn't elaborate. He sips on his beer and rips the plastic off the Marlboros, smelling the potent tobacco inside the little red box.

Charlie still looks unhappy, and he knows it's because he first failed to tell her his secret and now he won't explain it. He wants to feel more sorry than he is, but he also hates feeling this pressured into opening up.

She takes a few sips of her beer as well, and silently watches Dean play around with the bottle cap. She looks so genuinely sad and out of place in her home, that Dean can't help but resign and give in to her sadness.

“What, Charlie?”

She drops her feet from his lap and leans forward, one hand still on her beer. “It's just...those bruises, Dean. Why would you let some guy hurt you like that? Who did that to you?”

Well, shit. That's not the question Dean was expecting, but it should have been. He opened this door for Charlie to see into his life, so now he's got to provide the spark notes and bylines for everything she's looking at. Maybe if he thinks of it like a band-aid, he can get it over and done with fairly quickly. Charlie should know better than to pry too deeply, anyway.

“It's really not what it looks like, I promise. There's a guy that frequents the bar, and sometimes we hook up. He can be a rough top, but if I didn't like it, I wouldn't keep going back for more, okay?”

It's still not enough for Charlie. “Who is it?”

“Benny Lafitte,” he admits, reluctantly.

“I knew it! That fucker!” She explodes, slamming the beer bottle down with enough force to shake the table. “Dammit!”

“Whoa, Charlie, what's the big fucking deal?”

“That asshole is telling everyone that he's your boyfriend! I heard him talking about you to a group of guys at the bar, and when I told him that you weren't gay, he _laughed_ at me. He said there was plenty about you that I didn't know. This was barely a week ago, Dean, he was getting so graphic that Ellen and Jo had to ask him to leave. Promise me you'll never go around that jerk again!”

Dean has literally never seen Charlie this angry about something in real life (even though she threatens to murder people's families when online gaming, almost daily) and to be honest, it's a little scary. She might be small, but like Jo she can pack a punch and hold her own.

He was scared of this happening, too. He had a feeling Benny had been telling people about what they had been up to, and after what Cas had told him about their conversation, he worried that Benny was telling people a lot more than that. It makes sense now, at least, why Benny was trying so hard to get mouthy and intimate.

“It's okay, Charlie, I won't sleep with him anymore, alright? Obviously the guy can't tell the difference between reality and fantasy. We've hooked up a lot, but he was never my boyfriend,” he says, calmly, trying to get her to relax. “Thanks for sticking up for me, though. And, uh...sorry I was really gay when you said I wasn't.”

She does relax, finally, but not very much. She nods, and opens her mouth to say something else when someone knocks on the door.

“Gilda?” Dean asks, rising to his feet to get the door for her.

“No, not tonight. I told her you were going to be here and I wanted some alone time with you,” she explains, and Dean thinks it's a little funny how often she says things that could be taken the wrong way.

When he opens the door, Bobby is standing there with Jody. Bobby looks like someone drowned his dog and Jody is still in full uniform.

Dean is trying so hard to at least say hello, but he can't seem to move his lips or tongue. Neither of them have said anything yet, but they don't really need to. Dean is pretty sure he knows what they're going to say already. His heart falls out of his chest and onto the floor.

“Bobby?” Charlie peeks around Dean, her fingertips digging into his side when she sees why there's such a tense standoff happening at her door. “Oh no.”

“Dean,” Jody finally speaks, and it sounds like she's addressing a wounded animal, “I found your father, hun. I am so sorry to be the one to say this, but...he's gone.”

Dean's not entirely sure what happens next, but he's pretty sure he can hear people calling his name as he darts out the door, shoving Bobby and Jody aside, leaving Charlie, his cigarettes, and his shoes behind.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of this chapter talks a little bit about Dean's experience with funerals, including the embalming process / what happens to bodies after people die. Skip the first five paragraphs if you don't want to read that.

Dean was too young to remember the sequence of events that occurred after his mother's death, and he hadn't been close enough to anyone else that died to know what was supposed to happen when a loved one's body is found, frigid beneath several inches of heavy Kansas snow.

The only time he'd seen a dead body before was at his mother's funeral - if a body that's been drained of blood, packed with chemicals and layered with makeup counts. It was a wake, an open casket affair, because John insisted it would help bring the boys closure to see her that way. Sammy was just a baby, far too young to have any concept of death or funerals, but Dean understood. He knew that John had meant for Dean to see her that way, the consequence of his foolish actions, cause and effect coming full circle in a lesson that he would never forget.

She had looked plastic, like one of Jo's barbie dolls, with rosy cheeks and shiny hair fanned out around her face on the pillow like an angelic halo. She looked clean, too, and smooth, but not in a good way. It was as if her skin had been pulled tight like canvas across the frame of her bones, waxy and stiff. Dean remembered thinking that if he reached out to touch her, to hold her hand once more or pinch her hair between his fingers, that she would feel like one of Jo's barbies, too.

As an adult, Dean learned that bodies are preserved that way in a process called embalming, but he could never understand why anyone would want to see their loved one in such a way. Pumping them full of formaldehyde, spraying them with disinfectant and sewing their jaws shut, then rearranging their facial features to make them look at peace, falsely happy with their fate. If Dean had known at four years old that his mother's eyes had been covered with caps and then glued shut to keep them from opening, he would never have gone to her funeral. He would have thrown a tantrum in the back seat of the Impala until John gave up and let him stay there.

After seeing his father's body and giving Jody the official identification she needed, Dean had a better idea of why some people choose to have an open casket rather than keeping it closed. He thought nothing could be worse than watching his father waste away, carelessly poisoning himself night after night, until he saw the way ice and snow can change the human body when the heart is no longer beating.

John had left and gone for a walk that night, after smacking Dean awake for falling asleep with a cigarette in his hand. He knew his dad needed to cool off, needed to collect his thoughts before returning and speaking to Dean again, but what he didn't know was that John had also taken that bottle of Wild Turkey with him. He drank and walked, drank and walked and drank some more, until he was so drunk he couldn't keep himself upright. He slipped on a patch of ice, too uncoordinated and slow from the alcohol to catch himself, and hit his head. The near-record low of ten degrees below zero didn't do much to stop the swelling or slow the bleeding, but provided a stark enough contrast of bleached-white snow against browning, dark red blood for Jody to spot from her patrol car.

The horrific symmetry of his parent's death doesn't go unnoticed, both being Dean's fault and both happening on Dean's birthday, though not identical in method. If he hadn't of lit that fucking Marlboro, if he hadn't of selfishly wanted to steal a few drags while laying on his bed, John wouldn't have felt the need to take a bacchanalian stroll in the middle of the night during a particularly cold Lawrence winter. He wouldn't have been so upset by Dean's careless action, driven to drink on the 20th anniversary of his wife's death, with the ice beneath the snow as his final downfall.

Dean never put too much thought into what his father's funeral would be like, or how he would pay for it, though he probably should have considering the way John's health was rapidly declining. He had clung to the hope his father could survive the apocalypse, that he would die mercifully in his sleep at a ripe old age, giving Dean an extra twenty or thirty years to save up and think about the details. Fortunately, John had left Bobby very specific instructions and enough cash to cover the expenses when the time came. Turns out that John had pretty much planned and prepared for his funeral right after Mary's death.

Bobby said it was because John didn't want to leave his young boys with that task, having to bury a second parent with no idea how to do it, but Dean doesn't think it's that simple. He suspects that John longed for death from the moment Mary was lowered into the ground.

Now Dean can relate to that specific type of longing, like an unspoken wish in his heart to simply die, to fall asleep with a comforting bottle of whiskey in his hand and never wake up. He knew his father had been in pain, dragging his little boys across the country to escape Mary's lingering ghost, only to return to Lawrence after fourteen years of running to retire and succumb to dipsomania.

You can't be a professional alcoholic on the road, after all.

He thought he understood his father's pain when Sam left them for Stanford. Sure, he was still technically alive and happy somewhere, living the kind of life that Dean only allowed himself to have in dreams, but he may as well have been dead. Sam severed all the ties that kept him tethered to Lawrence, left the majority of his belongings behind, and instructed Dean never to call or write with promises to return the favor.

It was the biggest Fuck You that Dean had ever received without the offender raising a middle finger.

Dean knows now how foolish it was to think that was the greatest loss he would ever feel. Sam had been everything back then, not just a brother but also a best friend, someone that Dean had trusted completely and without reservation. But Sam was only the first to leave, beating and clearing the path for others to follow in his stead. How foolish Dean had been to put that same level of trust into Lisa, who left him without even saying goodbye to his face, and then into his father, who needed Dean to help him function on a daily basis, only to die and leave him on his own.

It's not a mistake that Dean will make a fourth time. He might be slow to learn some lessons, but this one is permanently etched into his bones, written and dyed on every fiber of his being.

The sky is blue, the grass is green, and people leave.

At first, Dean wanted to be left alone. He had ran out of Charlie's apartment, shoeless and directionless until his feet were so numb he couldn't take another step. He'd been so out of his mind that he didn't even notice Jody, Bobby and Charlie trailing behind him in the cruiser, waiting for him to wear himself out or come to his senses.

Charlie insisted on staying with Dean at his house, despite the slew of profanities and protests he'd roared for over two hours until he'd lost his voice. That first night in the house was the hardest, because she wouldn't let him drink and bravely accepted every insult he could think of to throw at her without taking it personally or retaliating. She made him take a hot shower and then laid with him on his twin sized bed, holding him like a little spoon until they fell asleep.

It wasn't until the next morning when she awoke to find Dean already up and drunk that Charlie forced him to move into her apartment. She had called in reinforcements, asking Bobby to pick up Ellen and Jo to come over and talk some sense into him while she packed up his essential belongings. It didn't take long considering Dean was drunk, outnumbered, and most of his stuff was already in a duffel bag beneath his bed.

Dean had been essentially relieved of duty for the week, so Charlie took a couple days off to keep an eye on him. It felt a lot like being on suicide watch, and he supposed it was. Winchesters were officially an endangered species, Dean being the last one in Kansas, and Sam somewhere in California with no way to contact him. He hated being watched like a child, told what he could and couldn't do as if he hadn't been raising himself and his brother their whole lives. How quickly everyone seems to forget that Sam wasn't raised by John, but by Dean, and Sam turned out pretty damn smart and self-sufficient.

When Charlie returns to work, Dean discovers the benefits of being completely alone.

He mindlessly played her video games at first, taking a special interest in few particularly bloody ones and then switching to Grand Theft Auto. Dean took a little too much pleasure in beating up pedestrians and stealing their cars, but even that small amount of joy was short lived. His thoughts kept crawling back to John's upcoming funeral, and the fact that Sam had no idea their dad was dead.

Serves that asshole right, Dean thinks. He can't just walk away from their family like that and expect to stay in the know. John could have died at any point in the last two years – hell, _Dean_ could have died and it's not like Sam cared enough to call even once. Dean's phone number hasn't changed in six years. Sam is the one withholding contact information, dammit.

He wonders what Sam would say if Dean found a way to call him and tell him the news. Probably something along the lines of _good riddance_ , he guesses.

If only Dean could feel the same way about his family, he wouldn't have to be sitting here alone, slapping hooker-shaped pixels like a nerdy loser instead of sinking into a liquor induced coma.

He shoots at a few more pedestrians, evades arrest, steals a red Corvette and then sets the controller down. There is technically nothing stopping him from getting as drunk as wants, except the promise he made to Charlie that he wouldn't. He's old enough, has the money, and it's warmer out today than it has been in the last few days. He could walk to his house, get the Impala, drive to the liquor store, then find a nice place to park and get drunk beneath the stars.

Yeah, that stuff. He wants to make that stuff happen.

Dean changes out of his dirty sweats, putting on a layer of long, thermal underclothes first to wear beneath his sweater and jeans. He slips on his jacket and boots, grabs his keys, and then he's out the door.

It's early afternoon when Dean starts walking, but he intentionally left his cellphone behind at Charlie's, so he can't check the time as he walks. His home is about five miles away from her apartment, so he figures if he keeps a steady pace, he can make it to his Impala in about an hour. It's only been a few days, but he really misses his Baby and thinks some quality time on her hood will do him some good.

Dean can't know for sure, but he guesses it's about three or four in the afternoon by the time he finally makes it to his house. He walked far too slowly to make the five mile trip in an hour, barely faster than a snail's pace, and he wouldn't be surprised if it ended up taking him almost two hours instead of one. He smiles for the first time in days when he sees the Impala, covered by a tarp that he's sure Bobby or Ellen put over it. Dean removes the tarp quickly and easily, unlocks the door and puts the key in the ignition.

Hearing his Baby's engine rumble to life is practically medicinal, like the equivalent to six weeks worth of intensive therapy. Dean needed this, and he sure as hell isn't going back to Charlie's without at least one more good rendezvous.

There are no lights on in the house, no heat coming from the wood burning stove and no uneaten dinners waiting at the table. He knows this without going inside to check, obviously, because everyone that cared enough to make those things happen is dead, Dean included.

Whoever Dean used to be a week ago is waiting to be buried alongside his dad.

The drive to the liquor store takes longer than he thought it would, only because he decides to go across town to the one he's rarely been to. He doesn't want to be recognized or told to stop, especially since he plans on buying enough to last him a month. It's his paycheck and he can do whatever the fuck he wants with it.

He buys several bottles of whiskey, and one bottle each of vodka, tequila, and rum. The chick at the counter gives him a weird look, but Dean doesn't care. She asks if there's a party, and he promptly tells her _no_. She looks easy enough but he's not even the slightest bit interested. He'd tell her as much, inform her that she is definitely not his type because she looks too similar to someone he'd been engaged to once, but he keeps it to himself. It's not her fault that she was born with beautiful dark hair and wide eyes to match, with skin like creamed coffee and –

_Stop it, Dean_ , he thinks. Stop thinking about that shit right now.

The alcohol is relatively heavy to carry, but he manages his way back to the Impala with a bag in each arm. He puts it all in the trunk and tries to think of a place he could drive to, where he'd be alone and undisturbed, without the city lights to detract from the peacefulness of the night sky.

Dean thinks of the perfect place, but unfortunately he'd need someone's help to get there.

There's a large expanse of land outside the city surrounded by heavy duty fencing, owned by someone who intended to make some kind of farm out of it but never quite finished the job. It's uninhabited and unlit, perfect for parking when privacy is essential, but the entrance is a broken metal gate that takes at least two people to lift and move. He tried to lift it by himself once with no luck, and had to recruit Sammy a few times to help him with it so he could take his dates somewhere secluded and dark.

It's exactly where Dean wants to be, but he can't get there alone. He's also pretty certain that none of his friends are going to help him get drunk on private property. Charlie would have a hernia and then he'd really be on lock-down.

There's only two people he can think of that would help him, but he's not sure how he feels about his options. He still has Cas' business card, but he's really not in the fucking mood for a date. In fact, it's probably a good idea to avoid Cas completely, considering how attracted Dean is to him and the potential for heartbreak the guy presents. It's not like Dean is in love with the guy or anything, but he's definitely not interested in setting himself up for failure. He's not even in the mood for conversation, and he can't exactly invite Cas out to an isolated location and then stay silent.

That would be creepy.

Dean's only other option is Benny, and that option gets more appealing the longer that he thinks about it. He doesn't want to further Benny's illusions about a relationship between them, but they do have enough history that it wouldn't be weird for Dean to invite him or to sit in silence. He would gladly accept the free alcohol and shut his mouth if asked.

Benny it is.

Dean doesn't have his cellphone, so he drives around Lawrence a little aimlessly until he finds a payphone. The sun is starting to dip into the horizon, and Charlie should be arriving home sometime soon. He hopes she's not too mad, and gets the hint that he doesn't want to be found when she sees his cellphone on the dining table.

He knows Benny's phone number by heart, but not for any special reason other than he's known him for years and the number is easy to remember with mostly repeating digits. Dean calls the number from the payphone, unsure if Benny will answer a number he doesn't recognize, but after several rings he hears a familiar _Hello?_

“Hey, Benny, it's Dean.”

There's a pause, then, “ _Dean, are you okay?_ ”

“I'm great, man. Just wanted to know if you felt like getting together tonight, out at that abandoned farm place.”

“... _Where?_ ”

“You know, that fucking fenced up farm just south of the Wakarusa,” Dean says, starting to get irritated.

“ _Oh, right_ ,” Benny starts, followed by some weird muffled noises and mumbling. Dean waits for about a minute before he gets impatient, and he's about to hang up when he gets back on the phone. “ _Yeah, I can do that. You wanna pick me up from work_?”

Dean realizes he's known Benny for about two years but has no idea where he works. “Where is that?”

“ _The Bayou Jolie_ ,” he laughs, but must sense that Dean still doesn't know what he's talking about because he adds, “ _the cajun cafe a few blocks from Bobby's Salvage_. _You eat here all the time, asshole._ ”

It's weird, because Dean really has eaten there a lot in the last couple of years, but he doesn't ever remember seeing Benny. It's close enough to walk to on his lunch breaks and he and Charlie would split the Boudin Bowl, the cafe's signature dish. Just thinking about it makes his mouth water.

“I'll be there in ten minutes. If your shift isn't over, just fake an illness or something, got it?”

“ _Got it, Winchester. See you soon_.”

Dean hangs up the payphone and eyes the skyline, wondering what the exact time is and what the chances are he'll be spotted by Charlie or Bobby if he drives through that part of town right now. He's willing to risk it, so he starts the Impala and heads towards the cafe, keeping his eyes peeled for anyone he might recognize.

It's hard to stay incognito when driving his Baby, loud and black and obvious, so he takes the long way around to avoid getting too close to Charlie's apartment or the garage. He's careful not to rev the engine or drive too quickly, and makes it to the cafe in just under ten minutes, as promised.

He parks the car out front, unsure about whether or not to go in and fetch Benny himself, until Benny comes out with a plastic bag and looking nicer than usual. He's still not really Dean's type, he'd never describe him as beautiful, sexy, or any of those adjectives that smitten people use to describe the ones they've fallen for, but it doesn't mean he's unattractive. Just not meant for Dean.

Benny opens the car door and gets in, setting the bag with several boxes in it between them and then buckles. Dean pulls out of the parking lot, looking around to make sure he hasn't been spotted or isn't being followed, and heads south toward the vacant farm lot.

“Brought you somethin',” Benny says, reaching into the bag and pulling out the top box. He pops it open and it smells like caramel and happiness.

“What is it?” Dean steals a quick glance away from the road to reach over and pluck one of whatever is in the box. It's warm and golden and looks somewhat like peanut brittle.

“Never had pecan pralines before? Made 'em myself. This batch is still fresh.”

Dean pops the piece in his mouth, and it's perfectly orgasmic. It's crunchy, which he's normally not a fan of, but it's still warm and sweet and he can taste the vanilla blended with cinnamon.

“I didn't know you could cook,” Dean says around a mouthful of praline. Benny laughs.

“Couldn't run the place if I didn't,” he said, then noticed Dean's look of surprise, “you really didn't know that's my cafe?” Dean shakes his head. “Guess you don't know that much about me, huh?”

It makes Dean uncomfortable how saddened Benny looks after stating that truth, but it's not out of concern for his feelings. Dean doesn't like the direction the conversation is heading, and there's already been too much talking going on for his liking. He loves food but doesn't really give a shit about whether or not Benny can cook or why he brought several boxes of food with him to the car.

He just wants to get drunk and not feel anything for a while.

“The first time I saw you was at the cafe, 'bout three years ago. I kept asking people who you were, finally figured out you worked at Bobby's, but never had any reason to go there. Then I heard you started working at the Roadhouse a year later, so I changed bars,” Benny explains, opening another box filled with roasted pecans, “I wasn't expecting you to flirt with me. Didn't even know if you swung that way.”

Dean does remember being the first between them to make a move, trying to subtly pick up the guys he thought would be interested when Ellen and Jo weren't looking, but it doesn't stop him from feeling completely creeped out by Benny's confession. In all this time, he never even knew where Benny worked, but Benny sure did know a lot about Dean.

Maybe taking him out to the farm is a bad idea.

It's a little late to change his mind, so he'll just have to avoid doing anything boyfriend-like to keep Benny from getting the wrong idea. There are obviously a lot of mixed signals between them, so he needs to tread lightly.

“That's funny,” Dean says a little darkly, not humored in the slightest. It was a noncommittal response, enough to acknowledge that Benny had been talking but nothing more. He seems to get the picture, because he doesn't continue his stalker story or say anything else for the next twenty minutes.

He starts to feel that little nagging sensation in his chest, but this time it's making him feel guilty for doing this to Charlie. He would do anything for her, and she had done so much for him in the last week, but Dean desperately needs this breather from reality. She can't keep him locked away like a princess in a tower forever.

But it's not just that he left her place with no note or way to get a hold of him, it's that he's with the one person she made him promise not to see. He wasn't exactly expecting their weird pseudo-date to be anything more than drinking and sitting in silence, but it won't make a difference to Charlie. She'd made it clear that even a too-long glance in Benny's general direction would be a betrayal.

He slows down as they reach the gate, with just enough sunlight left on the horizon to see what they're doing as they lift the broken metal out of the way. They drive just a little further across the overgrown grass, far in enough not to be seen by someone passing by, and park the car.

Dean gets out of the car first, reaching into the back for the bags of alcohol. Benny's shocked face is almost hilarious enough to make him laugh, but he manages to keep it together until he opens the first bottle of whiskey and climbs up on top of the Impala's hood.

Benny follows suit, getting on top of the hood beside him, saying nothing. The sun sets, bleeding the sky of reds and oranges until it's dark and glittering with stars. Dean takes a couple swigs of Tullamore Dew and passes it to Benny.

“Heard about your dad,” he says, tilting his head in Dean's direction, “I'm sorry.”

Dean says nothing.

He does, however, take the whiskey back and chug it.

“Take it easy, Dean-o, or you're gunna get sick.”

“Don't call me that.”

He passes the bottle back, but Benny just sets it against the windshield between them, declining to drink more. “You sure you're okay?”

“Yeah, 'm fine.”

Dean's not sure why, but Benny finally seems to give up on conversation. Thank God, because they were starting to waste valuable starlight time.

It's cooled off a lot since earlier when Dean first left Charlie's, now that the sun has set and it's getting late, and he's glad he had the forethought to put on an extra layer beneath his clothes. It's not enough to keep the chill from reaching his core, though, so it's not too long before Dean is shivering and wishing he had at least brought a hat.

He drinks more Tullamore Dew in an attempt to numb himself from the cold. He's already feeling the effects of the whiskey, his head doing some kind of combination of swimming and floating as he tries to focus on the pin-points of glowing light above him. He wonders how cold his dad felt before he died.

Dean is buzzed and slipping quickly into wasted territory, so he doesn't notice the way his body is still trembling despite how loose he feels. He's reached the peak of dazed and deadened that he was going for, but his thoughts are drifting to places he doesn't want them to go. The last time he got to lounge like this on his Baby was with Sam, each with a beer in hand, equipped with uplifting cliches to help his little brother through a rough breakup.

He reaches over to playfully pet Sammy's hair, which is in critical need of a haircut before his high school graduation, only to remember that Sam isn't the one beside him. Dean had drunkenly miscalculated his aim, realizing too late that his hand was now fondling Benny's chest.

Benny rolls over onto his side and drapes an arm over Dean, then presses his face and lips against his cheek in some kind of weird attempt at nuzzling.

“Offa me,” Dean slurs, elbowing him in the ribs with a graceless jab. Benny didn't move away, instead choosing to trail wet kisses across his face. “G'off, asshole.”

“Why did you bring me here, Dean?” Benny asks, his voice thick with annoyance. Dean is far too gone to form a solid, coherent reply, so he just shrugs his shoulders and clutches the bottle of whiskey more tightly in his fingers.

Benny turns away, rolling back into his place beside Dean, folding his arms behind his head. He sighs as Dean takes another swig, the bottle nearly empty. “I thought that since you're out of the fucking closet now, you might actually be taking me on a date.”

Dean laughs.

Benny doesn't.

“It's a small place, you know. I hear things. Jo doesn't know how to keep that loud mouth of hers down during business hours, and Ellen's no better. I know you were fucking _outed_ , and I know you've been getting friendly with that nosey prick – who, by the way, accused me of _raping_ you.” Benny turned back toward Dean, getting way too close again, but there's nothing he can do but take it. Dean is so thoroughly sloshed that he's just glad he can understand what's being said to him.

“We're not...we're not ah _thing_ , 'kay? You an' me, it's nuthin', just convenient. You're not even my... _type_ ,” Dean tries to explain, unsure if he's speaking clearly and practically giggling between each word.

It takes a minute, but sure enough Benny's fist punched through the numbing wall of whiskey, and Dean could feel exactly how much it was supposed to hurt.

The first punch to the side of his face hurt like hell, but it wasn't enough to do any real damage. Before he could even react to it, Benny had maneuvered his body and kicked Dean hard in the chest, knocking him off the hood and down into the snow. He wanted to defend himself from the attacks and the fall, but the almost entire bottle of Tullamore had fully soaked into his bloodstream and there was no way he could do anything more than just flop around and groan.

Dean's not sure how long he's in the snow for before Benny is standing over him, unzipping his fly. Dean's instincts kick into hyper-drive, his internal voice screaming at him to get away because something bad is about to happen, but his body may as well be disconnected from his brain for how poorly it's responding.

Something warm and wet is soaking through his sweater.

Urine. Benny is pissing on him.

“Thanks for the date, Winchester,” he growls, then searches through Dean's pockets until he finds a twenty dollar bill. Benny puts the cash in his pocket and says, “...and for the cab fare.”

After another solid kick in the gut and two in the ribs, Benny is finally done treating Dean like a whipping boy. He walks off toward the gate, pulling out his cellphone to call a taxi.

Dean fucking _hurts_ , between the blow to his face and the repeated hits to his midsection, plus falling off the car and landing on the left side of his body, he's certain there's going to be plenty of new bruises to add to his growing collection.

He can't find the willingness to care, though. If anything, it's as if the universe is simply returning the favor for everything Dean has done to make it worse. He killed his mom, killed his dad, drove Sammy away, and now he's laying in the middle of a snow covered field, wounded and aching and soaking in piss.

It seems fair, he thinks. A slap on the wrist compared to the damage he's done to those he loved most.

The snow is melting against his body heat, dampening his clothes with ice cold water. Dean is shaking in earnest now, freezing wet and admittedly scared, and he knows he's got to get up off the ground and back into the Impala. He manages to stand upright after several tries, clinging to his Baby for balance, but falls again into the snow-slick grass. It's not until he grips the door handle that's able to pull himself with lasting success, opening the door and crawling inside.

Thank Christ the Impala came with bench seats. He closes the door behind him and peels off his clothes, which takes ten times as long as it should considering he's plastered, then stretches out across the front seat in nothing but his underwear.

It's cold as fuck, but warmer than laying in icy wet clothes.

He had searched for his keys while getting undressed, but couldn't find them. He remembers putting them in the same pocket as his cash, so Benny must have taken them, too. Now Dean can't even start his car to get the heat blasting so he doesn't freeze to death.

So much for a therapeutic night with the stars.

Dean curls in on himself, closes his eyes and thinks about how his father's body looked after spending a couple days face down in the snow. He wonders if a night of ten degrees below zero is enough to kill a person, then falls asleep.

The first thing to trickle into his subconscious is a frantic tapping on glass. He can hear his name being called, muffled and contorted by some kind of barrier, but as he rises out of sleep and into blurry alertness, he becomes painfully aware of all the noises echoing around him.

Dean clings to his fading dream, something about warmth and welcoming blue eyes, but the stench of stale urine and the pounding on the car door draws him up and out of his reverie. His body aches with sharp pains and a heavy, pulsing headache so intense he can barely open his eyes. Worse yet is the cold, his toes and fingers tingly and numb.

It's still dark out, and whoever is outside the Impala is using a flashlight to see in. Dean feels slightly less drunk but nowhere near sober, and has the sudden need to purge the contents of his stomach.

He pulls on the little black knob, unlocking the car door and forcing himself out, vomiting all over the snow and grass. He can't feel his hands or feet and is rather surprised that they're working at all.

There's more than one person approaching Dean, but he doesn't bother looking up to see who they are. At this point, they could be surrounding him with the intent to kill him and he wouldn't care, but that thought is squashed as soon as he hears someone calling him an 'idgit'.

It's Bobby, Charlie, and Jo. Of course. Someone drapes a thick, heavy blanket over his back and someone else grabs him by the arm and guides him to one of the vehicles. He's handed a water bottle to rinse out his mouth, which does help him feel a little less gross. Dean can hear them discussing whether or not he needs medical attention, and Charlie starts to cry.

He really doesn't mean to be such an asshole. Apparently, it just comes naturally.

Bobby forces Dean into the back of his car, which is heated and has wonderful fabric seats that feel soft against his skin. There's someone sitting in the back seat beside him, but he's too focused on what the girls and Bobby are discussing to figure it out. Whoever it is, they're rubbing Dean's back in a sweet, soothing way, so much so that he's tempted to close his eyes and fall back asleep. He guesses it's either Ellen or Jody.

“ – can't keep an eye on his ass twenty-four seven, okay?”

“Did you see his upper body? His face? He looks like someone mugged him! We need to –”

“Hold it, don't you think we should ask him what happened first, before we jump to conclusions?”

“We can't keep doing this, he needs professional help.”

Dean closes his eyes, then turns his body so he's facing away from the three of them arguing with each other. The hand on his back slows, then moves to the base of his neck to tenderly massage his nape.

“I'm glad you're okay,” the person beside him says, and it's definitely not a woman. He recognizes Cas' voice, but keeps his eyes closed. He's afraid of losing whatever piece of dream or cold-induced hallucination he's clinging to that has Cas sitting next to him, caring about his safety.

Dean allows himself to fall toward the voice, two strong arms catching and cradling him against a lithe, muscular chest. He almost wants to laugh again, thinking how differently Benny is built, how much Benny isn't his type, and all the pain those verbalized thoughts cost him.

“You're freezing,” Dream Cas says, adjusting the blanket so that it covers more of Dean's body. Someone opens the car door and drops in Dean's shoes, then shoves him over into the middle so they can sit in the back. He likes that he's closer to Cas, pressed up against the warmth of his well-framed body, but then Jo is cloaking her arms around Dean's back and calling him a jackass.

“Dean! You fucking promised me,” he hears, faint and muted through the glass. It's coming from Cas' side, so he feels deprived when Cas lifts his arm from around Dean to roll down the window, “You were here with that asshole, weren't you? That's why there's so many goddamn pecans in the car! I told you this would happen! Look at me!”

Dean opens his eyes, slowly, and looks up toward Charlie's voice. She's crying, her face red and streaked with tears, and he knows he's fucked up big time, again.

“What did he do to you? You don't even look like you fought back! He left you here to freeze to death, Dean! Did he...” Charlie pauses, catching her breath and wiping tears from her face, “Did he force himself on you?”

He's still a little drunk, woozy and slow to catch up to everything Charlie is saying, but shakes his head in reply. Cas uses his thumb to brush away the tears that Dean didn't know were on his face, and he's abruptly aware that Cas isn't a dream.

“Don't lie to me, Dean! I'll fucking kill him! I can't fucking believe you would do this _again_!”

“That's enough, Charlie,” Cas says, gently and monotone, tightening his hold around Dean's back and shoulders.

“You don't even know him!” Charlie counters, screaming, “You don't get to say!”

“Enough!” Bobby bellows, approaching the window and seizing Charlie by her elbow. The look he gives her could put the fear of Jesus in Satan himself, so she relents, scowling at Cas as she rounds the car and gets into the front passenger seat.

Dean sits up, suddenly uncomfortable with the idea of _real_ Cas cradling him like a frail invalid, and shrugs off Cas' hands when he tries to follow. He's so embarrassed, absolutely humiliated to be found beaten up, drunk and in his underwear, then comforted by the one guy he might actually have feelings for. It pisses him off so much that Cas only seems to show up when Dean is at his worst, and then acts like some kind of gallant hero.

Dean doesn't need saving, dammit, and he especially doesn't need some hot guy pretending like he gives a shit about what happens to him.

He tries to make this point by turning and leaning into Jo, who immediately wraps her arms around him in the same way Cas had done, then strokes his hair in a doting, maternal manner.

Maybe there's no coming back from this, Dean thinks, now that he's lost pretty much everything that ever meant anything to him at all. His life is meaningless without his family, and he only kept himself going for the last week because he didn't want to hurt his friends.

At this point, he'd be lucky if Charlie ever spoke to him again. Everyone else thinks Dean needs more help than they can offer, and they're probably right. He's a lost cause with nothing left to live for, only some shrink analyzing his head to look forward to. Just being alive and breathing is hurting his friends, he sees, because they'll never stop worrying and following him around.

Even Cas only sees him as someone to pity, like a kid sparing the lesser ants from the magnifying glass.

Bobby gets into the car and they're off, driving away from the broken gate and away from his Baby. It feels wrong to leave her behind, defenseless and deserted, but there's nothing he can do about. He lifts his head to look out the back window, ignoring the protesting pain in his head and neck as he does so, watching the Impala shrink in the distance.

“Don't worry, I'm gunna tow her back tonight,” Bobby says, and it helps. Dean does feel a little better knowing she won't be left abandoned for too long.

It's kind of sad that Dean feels worse for his car than he does his friends.

He drifts in and out of sleep for a few minutes, letting Jo comfort him as he slowly starts to warm up. Lawrence is a small town, so it's not long before they're pulling up in front of a nice single-level home that Dean doesn't recognize.

“Thanks for helping, Castiel. Sorry we called you so late,” Jo says over Dean in appreciation.

“It was no problem,” Cas answers, then pats Dean on the back, “I'd like to see you tomorrow, Dean, if that's okay with you.”

He can't help the way Cas' voice and touch makes him blush, even drunk, and he finds himself wishing he could just go home with Cas and curl up with him under the covers until he's cured of all his problems. Dean nods before he can stop himself, saying, “Yeah,” and pulls the blanket around him tighter.

Then Cas is gone, and Bobby is driving again.

Dean might be a little wasted still, but he can't believe he just agreed to see Cas again. There is no fucking way in hell he's going to set himself up to be ditched again, by _anyone_ , no matter how unfairly attractive they are. Even if Cas didn't decide to just up and leave one day, even if he wanted to stick around until the end of time, it wouldn't be fair to lead him on. Dean's not capable of that kind of relationship anymore, friendship or otherwise, and if Dean decides to check out early once he's sobered up, then that would just be one more person he'd have to worry about hurting and leaving behind.

He's not sure what, but he's got to do something. He can't let Cas crawl under his skin and make a home there.

They pull up in front of the garage, and Bobby tells Dean to stay put. Charlie gives him another death glare but says nothing, getting out of the car to join Bobby. Jo leaves too, kissing the top of his head before going to join the others inside the shop. He's not sure what they're going in there to do, but he hopes one of them thinks to bring out one of those extra shirts.

Just not that goddamn Banana Splits one.

Dean has warmed up enough to shed the blanket, and the radio is on low and humming some kind of mellow tune that Bobby must enjoy. He's staring out at the office, their shadows moving around against the back-lit window, and he gets an idea.

He knows exactly how to get Cas the fuck out of his life and away from him for good.

His shoes are still on the floorboard, warm and dry, so he puts them on and laces them up as quickly as he can. He doesn't have any clothes except for his underwear, but Bobby left his coat in the front seat so he grabs it and zips it on. Then, as carefully as he can, he opens the door and slips out.

Dean's body is fighting against him, aching and groaning with every movement, but it's not enough to stop him from what he's about to do. He walks over to the low chain-link fence and scales it after a couple of failed attempts, then wanders through the salvage yard for something he can yield as a weapon.

There's a tire iron leaning against the side of the building, so he grabs it and ignores the ice cold bite of the metal against his skin. He goes to the back door that Bobby always keeps unlocked, because the old man has a problem with keeping track of his keys, and lets himself inside the garage where the cars are kept.

Bobby, Charlie and Jo are still inside the office, and he can hear them arguing about what to do with Dean next. They haven't noticed that Dean isn't in the car, or that he's actually inside the garage, so he makes sure to stay as quiet as a drunk injured guy can be.

He knows that Cas' Z16 is still in the garage, because he didn't have it with him when they found Dean at the farm and it wasn't in the driveway at Cas' garage-less little home. Sure enough, he spots the beautiful Chevelle at the far end of the garage, still in the same condition it was a week ago when Dean last worked on it.

It's such a horrible thing to do, to trash a car so rare and marvelous, but it's the only thing he can do to save himself and Cas from taking things any further. He'd rather burn in hell for destroying the car than let anyone else destroy _him_.

He smashes the driver-side window first, then breaks off the side view mirror.

The noise coming from the office stops, drowned out by the flying shards of glass and groaning of metal-on-metal impact.  


	5. Chapter 5

Being fired was the easiest part of the week, definitely.

Dean knew it would happen if he trashed the Chevelle, and accepted that it meant no more full-time job and no more full-time job income. He still had his shifts at the Roadhouse, but it won't be enough to pay the mortgage and utility bills, or buy groceries or gas or cigarettes. He knows this, but doesn't care. Not anymore, anyway. Not after his father's body had been lowered into the ground beside his mother.

The worst of it was Bobby's reaction to it all. He had been unnaturally mild after storming into the garage from the office, the fury wiped from his features and replaced with a cold, almost sympathetic look of understanding. The same face Bobby wore around John.

Dean supposes he's a lot like his father now, but he doesn't know how to feel about that. He's always admired John for his accomplishments, always wanted to be just like him, but not the man that John devolved to in the final years of his life. _Why fight fate_ , Dean figures. John tried damn hard to outrun his demons, but in the end, those yellow-eyed creatures found a way to sneak in and tear away the layers, peeling off the scabs and scars until he was nothing but a festering wound. At least this way, Dean gets to avoid the years of running and pretending. He can just cut to the chase and carry on the Winchester legacy his father left behind.

It's a shame that Bobby can't see it that way, because it hurts to disappoint the man that had tried so hard to counteract the damage done by a lifetime with John on the road. _Babying you won't do any good_ , Bobby said, _I did that with your daddy and we all know how well that did_.

_You wanna be like your daddy? Is that what this is? Fine, but I'm not helping you do it. Get your shit together, Dean. No one can save you but yourself._

It's easy for them to say, though. They still have their families, and they still have each other. It was never _just Dean_ , it was always _Sam and Dean_ or _John and Dean_ , or even _The Winchester Boys_ on rare occasions and holidays. Now, for the first time in his life, he only has himself to take care of and he doesn't see the point.

He didn't go to the first part of the funeral, because he didn't see the point in that either. Only a handful of people went to see John's open casket, and Dean wasn't having any part of that. He'd rather have the last image of his father be the one of him in the morgue than of him looking fake and plastic inside a satin lined box. He'd seen enough of that, thanks, and he has plenty of reasons to drink as it is. 

He especially didn't want to hear other people say their final goodbyes, or share whatever memories they had of John with everyone else. It seemed wrong somehow that anyone should feel they had the right to do so, not when Dean was the only one carrying him to bed, cleaning him up, making him food, or checking his pulse. No one else did those things, not even Sammy.

Attending the burial was necessary. John needed at least one living Winchester beside him as he made his final descent into the Earth to rest beside his wife. It was almost like watching John's ultimate dream unfold, to be with Mary again. It's the only bright side to this whole horrific mess, that his dad is finally where he always wanted to be, reunited with his high school sweetheart at last.

Two days later, Dean is still trying to keep that perspective in mind as he sits beside his parents' neighboring graves, a flask of bourbon in his hand. He brushed the snow off their headstones but didn't bother clearing a place for him to sit, the snow soaking through his jeans in a way that's become too familiar in recent weeks. He doesn't know why he's apologizing to them, to a pair of engraved angels above his parents' names as if they can actually hear him or offer atonement, but he can't seem to stop. One tear-choked apology after another stumbles from his mouth until he's too worked up to speak, settling on nursing his flask until it's empty.

He considers staying relatively sober for this, because it's supposed to be therapeutic or cathartic or whatever to sit with his dead parents like a morbid reunion in a Tim Burton movie, but every time he looks at the matching death dates he needs to take a drink. One death on his birthday had been a struggle to deal with, but now that the date represents the complete downfall of the Winchester family tree, he can't handle it at all. Dean will never grow a year older without feeling completely sick about it, and that alone makes the future somewhere he doesn't want to be.

Sammy should be here, dammit. Even if he hated Dean and John, even if he didn't care that their dad had died, he should still fucking be here. He should know what happened, even if it meant he'd blame Dean for orphaning them completely, Dean would take the hate and anger and sorrow on his shoulders for Sammy. He'd take it all and tightly hold onto it so Sam could properly mourn their parents, and he'd even keep it when Sammy was done so he wouldn't have to take it back with him to California.

Two years later and Dean would still do anything for Sam, anything for the brother that gave him up so easily and left him behind. Loyalty was never a two way street for Dean, he didn't have to get it to give it back.

Sam needs to know, and Dean needs to figure out how to make that happen.

It's getting dark, and once again the sun is setting on a drunk and despondent Winchester, covered in melted snow for at least the third time. But this time he doesn't feel it, he doesn't feel anything except for the abundance of bourbon in his bloodstream, warm and tingly and wonderful. He feels so fine that he might actually curl up and fall asleep. The last few nights had been lonely, now that no one is really talking to him or willing to be around him, but he doesn't feel quite so lonesome here. In a gruesomely melancholy way, he almost feels like he's right where he belongs.

“May I interrupt?”

Holy Christ, if Dean wasn't so wasted he'd of jumped out of his skin. A dark and leathery voice in the middle of a cemetery is pretty high on his list of things to never fucking hear.

He turns to see who it is, even though he recognizes the voice. At first he thinks he's got to be way more plastered than he thought, because there's no way Cas would be standing there after what Dean did to his Chevelle, but sure enough, he's bundled up in a thick jacket and staring down at Dean like he's expecting a coherent response.

Maybe Bobby didn't tell Cas about his car yet. Maybe Cas doesn't realize he's interrupting a moment between Dean and the angels on the headstones.

He's trying to be deep, dammit.

“I fucked yer car,” Dean stammers, trying to regain control of his mouth, then belatedly realizes he said something very different than he intended. “I fucked _up_ your car, Cas.” Yeah, that's better.

“I am aware,” Cas says, a little smile perking up the corners of his lips, “As far as I'm concerned, you did me a favor.”

Dean doesn't have time to try to decipher whatever that means, because he's pretty busy trying to sulk and let the bourbon take control over his body. He was thinking about something important, too, but now he can't remember what it was. He's staring at Cas, which is actually quite enjoyable, but now there's that same old nagging jumping around in his head, not making any sense. Poor cricket must be drunk, too.

“Thank you, Dean. I find your face enjoyable to look at, too.”

Wait, what? Since when was Cas a damn mind reader?

“I'm not a mind reader, you're speaking aloud,” _Oh shit_. “Can I walk you home, Dean? It's getting dark.”

Dean's not sure if he wants to be walked home like a drunk prom date, but as long as a hot guy is volunteering he guesses he doesn't mind it too much. He's confused, mostly because he isn't sure why Cas is here at all or why he's not upset about his car. Wasn't the whole point of smashing it with a tire iron to keep Cas from showing up and being chivalrous? He destroyed a perfectly beautiful Z16 and yet it only seemed to endear Cas to him further.

He lifts himself off the ground by clutching at the headstones, but halfway up it feels like he's being pulled rather than doing the pulling. Cas has one arm hooked around Dean's, helping him to his feet and brushing off the snow sticking to the back of his jacket. Dean is standing, still wobbly, and leans against Cas for support.

“What're you doing here, Cas? You like to wander through cemeteries or somethin'?” Dean is surprised he managed to ask an understandable question, not just because he's drunk, but because it's really difficult to concentrate when Cas is holding him like this. There should be some kind of award for resisting Cas when he's pressed up against him, smelling like the crisp pages inside a brand new book. It's soft and subtle, clean and inviting, and if Dean's not careful then Cas will start reading his mind again.

Cas bites on the inside of his cheek, then says, “Bobby asked me to check on you. He said you've been out here for about three or four hours.”

Oh, well that makes sense, he supposes. It's completely normal to send out the guy who's car has been beat with a tire iron to walk home the guy that did the beating. Totally logical.

Dean doesn't get the chance to comment on it though, he's already forgotten what was said now that his unfiltered mind is traveling to new destinations at top speed. He knows he's walking, his feet are moving in slow steps in time with Cas', but he'd really like to be moving his body a little faster, _against_ Cas. In bed. Naked.

Cas is chuckling beside him now, and Dean is pretty sure he might have said that out loud, too.

“Sammy would like you,” Dean blurts, “you know, 'cause you smell like a library.”

There's a quick pause in Cas' step as he looks at Dean, confusion and interest written on his face. Dean didn't mean to say it, but it's true. Cas is exactly the type of person Sam used to be friends with in high school. Smart, well spoken and well read. Dean could never really keep up with all that stuff, but now he wishes he had spent a little more time trying to do better in school.

“Is Sammy your brother?”

“Yeah,” Dean admits, then wonders how Cas knew he had a brother in the first place. When the two of them had talked, it was mostly about Cas and his family, and close to nothing about Dean's family. He hates talking about his dad and brother because there's nothing good to say about it, no way to spin the light so it brightens the truth rather than casts shadows on it.

It hurts, because Dean used to love bragging about his brother. He loved to show him off, to let people see how close they were and how much Sammy knew at such a young age. So few people ever find a best friend as good as Dean had, and he always felt so lucky that his just happened to be his baby brother.

There's not much that can be said about John. He was a drunk with a temper and liked to push people to their limits and then push them away.

“Hey,” Dean stops, the errant thought taking over his brain, “do you think that's why she left me?”

Cas gives him another confused look, but this one has some pain to it. Crap, he didn't mean to hurt his feelings, but for some reason Dean can't get the idea out of his head. Cas is smart, so he'll know the answer, won't he? Maybe he knows more about people and social situations than he lets on.

“What?”

“Lisa, dude. She hated my dad, like, more than _anything_. Do you think that's why she left?”

They're stopped along the side of the road, partially illuminated by a street lamp, but it's still too dark for Dean to get a good look at Cas' expression. What he _can_ see is Cas deliberating for a minute about what to say, loosening his grip on Dean's arm.

“Maybe, Dean. I don't know.”

“Okay, but, that's why Sammy left, right? So maybe that's why she left too,” Dean can't stop himself from talking, he's not even sure how much of what he's saying is understandable but he feels like he has to say it or he'll explode, “Do you think if they knew he was dead, they'd come back?”

Cas rubs a hand over his face, taking a deep breath. “Is that what you want, Dean?”

“I miss Sammy,” he confesses, trying to focus on the spinning sidewalk beneath his shoes, “I always miss him, all the time.”

“And Lisa?” Cas prompts, tilting his head to try and meet Dean's blurry gaze.

“Sometimes I miss her,” he starts, searching his head for the right words to say, “but most of the time I just hate her.”

Cas nods, understanding now what Dean had been trying say, he hopes. The grip around his arm tightens and they're walking again. “I have someone like that, too.”

“A heartbreaking bitch?”

“Yeah, something like that. I'll tell you all about it, if you'd like, when you're sober.”

“Deal.”

Dean's not sure how long they're walking in a comfortable silence, mostly because his tanked mind is so far gone that he periodically forgets what he's doing and where he's at until Castiel gently reminds him. Cas will tell him where they are, how much longer they have until they're home, and then Dean responds by fantasizing about his lips and neck and stubble until he forgets and needs to be reminded again.

He recognizes the steps of his home, and giggles when Cas searches Dean's pockets for the keys. Dean still hasn't got his keys from Benny yet, his Baby still at the garage, so he's just been leaving the front door unlocked when he's gone. He doesn't really care if someone tries to steal his stuff, because he doesn't own anything that special anyway. Even their television is super old and more trouble than it's worth.

Walking didn't help Dean sober up any, if anything it may have progressed his helplessly inebriated condition. The rest of the bourbon he drank before Cas showed up had finally soaked into his system and he was so boozed up that Cas had to literally pick him up and carry him through the door. Dean muttered something about it being _kinky_ , which sounded so much funnier in his head, but Cas was laughing anyway.

He felt the universe falling – no, wait, that was just him – and then he was on the couch, with a tired looking Castiel trying to take off Dean's shoes.

“Not gunna buy me dinner first?” Dean jokes, his tongue slow and heavy in his mouth.

Cas finishes with one shoe and moves on to the next, not skipping a beat, “I'd love to, if you'd let me.”

“Oh yeah?” Dean says, trying desperately to regain even the smallest amount of composure, failing miserably. He can be a suave motherfucker when he wants to, but apparently not when he's full of Jim Beam. “You want to kiss me, Cas?”

Crap. He's pretty sure he forgot a few steps in there somewhere.

“Maybe when you're sober, Winchester,” Cas says, and it pisses Dean off. It's not so much what he said than it was the way he said it, like talking to a small child or letting someone down easy. Dean can only take so much pity and rescuing before he's ready to choke someone.

He reaches up and clutches at Cas' collar, jerking him down. He has no idea how much force or strength he's using, but he guesses it's a little too much when Cas yelps _WHOA_ and nearly falls to the ground.

Cas is halfway on the couch, one hand on the floor holding himself up. He's barely an inch away from Dean's face, and even though he wasn't quite sure whether or not he intended to choke Cas or kiss him, he decided in that moment that kissing sounded way better.

He crushes his mouth against Cas', trying to tap into his well-cultivated kissing skills that he knows are somewhere beneath all the alcohol and sleep deprivation, but it's a futile attempt. He feels like a flopping fish for all the good his lips are doing, convinced that Cas will never want to kiss him again after this horrific failure, but then Cas takes control of the kiss and everything changes.

Cas slows it down but holds it firm, urging Dean to keep his lips soft and pliant as he hesitantly slips his tongue between them. It barely lasts more than a moment, soft and warm and almost velvety against him, numb and buzzing. When Cas pulls away, Dean desperately wants to suck the plush lower lip back into his mouth, but can't. He's too slow, too uncoordinated and now entirely too self-conscious.

Cas is pushing himself away and standing up, taking a deep breath to steady himself. He looks down at Dean with reverence, and it kind of freaks him out. Even after Dean was the one to initiate, practically forcing him into a kiss he already declined, Cas is treating him like a damsel in distress.

This isn't one of Charlie's video games. Dean isn't Princess Peach, he's not in constant need of rescuing and he's certainly not a delicate flower.

“When you're sober,” Cas starts, smiling, “we'll try that again.”

“Why not now? Don't need you to protect my virtue, Cas.”

He slips off his coat and shoes, looking everywhere except for at Dean. “I don't think it's a good idea right now. We can discuss it after you've slept, okay?”

A heavy, frightening thought blooms in his gut, growing so quickly that he's tangled up and choking on it. If he were sober, this would be a crippling panic attack, but he's already drunk and can't build up any defenses against it. If Cas already knew about his brother and his dad, and apparently even about Lisa, he probably knows exactly what happened to Mary when he was four years old.

What if Cas knows his secret, and all his knightly behaviors toward Dean were nothing more than honest-to-God pity?

And why, _why_ did he kiss a guy that he _just_ swore he would never let himself get close to?

“Shit,” Dean groans, his head falling back into the armrest as he pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling sick, “is this 'cause of my mom? It is, isn't it?”

Cas steps closer and runs a cool, mellow hand through his hair. “Dean –”

“No, Cas, if this has anything to do with what I did to my mom, you can just leave right now.”

“Dean,” he repeats, still calm, “it's not your virtue I'm worried about, it's your consent. You might feel differently about kissing me in the morning when you're sober. I don't know what else you're talking about, I promise.”

“I know what I want. You think because I had too much to drink, I don't know what I want?”

“A few days ago you smashed my car with an old piece of metal, so for my sake at least, I'd like you to be capable of rational thought and not slurring your words the next time you kiss me. Please get some sleep, and we can discuss this and whatever else you want tomorrow.”

Cas offers a final cordial smile, then turns to leave. He makes it just through the open archway between the living room and the kitchen when Dean calls out after him, begging him to stop.

He's been alone for what feels like ages, trying to fill the empty space in a house too big for just him, trying to pack away all the memories in the same cardboard boxes that hold Sammy's belongings. The loneliness is suffocating, sitting on his lungs any time he's still for too long, any time he tries to fall asleep or make progress on clearing out John's things.

Being drunk hasn't actually helped Dean at all, which he's slowly starting to understand as each day passes without him getting any better. It doesn't help him sleep, it doesn't filter his nightmares like a dream-catcher or protect him from the paralyzing need to die. He can cradle the empty bottles against his chest like a lover all he wants, but it never does any good. They can't love Dean back no matter how much they might glisten in the sunlight.

He pushed his only friends away, trying to prove his strength through solitude, but he's never felt this weak or desperate in his life. Charlie isn't speaking to him, Bobby refuses to witness his reckless behavior, and Ellen and Jo are treating him like a dandelion - like he's already been fractured into a hundred little pieces, scattered across the plains by a strong wind and unable to be put back together.

Reverent or not, Cas doesn't look at him like he's broken. Sometimes he thinks Cas looks at him like he's a puzzle to be solved, but that's okay. Dean can deal with having a few missing pieces, as long as there's still someone around to appreciate the final picture.

“Stay,” Dean asks, his lips still humming from their short-lived kiss, “please, don't leave.”

Cas smiles, and it's like staring into the stars. He's smiling with the light he's seen reflected off the empty bottles of bourbon scattered around the house, like the warmth Dean was trying to chase from the sun-heated glass. Mary had a crystal like that once, hanging in front of the main window so that the light would hit it and refract into little rainbows dancing on the walls. Cas is like that crystal, he thinks, bringing color into Dean's monochromatic world.

“Okay,” Cas says, still smiling, “get some sleep. I'll see you in the morning.”

 

\- - - - - -

 

Dean wakes, and it's not pretty.

He's stiff and aching from sleeping on the couch, and his brain feels like it burst during the night and is slowly draining out of his ears. He's in his boxers and t-shirt, even though he doesn't remember changing out of his clothes, and there's a blanket draped over him that he doesn't recognize. It's thick and fuzzy and if Dean didn't have to piss so bad, he would never have pushed it off of him to get up.

Walking is a bitch, but he manages to make it to the bathroom without falling or dying, so that's a plus.

Images are flitting through his head now that he's awake enough to remember how drunk he was last night, so he tries to piece the memories together in an order that makes the most sense. He doesn't remember half of it, he's sure, but he distinctly recalls mashing his lips against Cas like a blubbering pre-teen trying to kiss someone for the first time. He wouldn't be surprised if Cas had to wash his entire face after that forced, sloppy maneuver.

He heads into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee, and can't believe it when he sees Cas making scrambled eggs and bacon. Even though he feels like a monumental asshole, emotionally _and_ physically, this is one sight he thinks he wouldn't mind seeing more often.

Castiel is dressed humbly in sweatpants and a t-shirt, his hair even more mussed than usual, with one hand holding a mug of still-steaming coffee. The food he's cooking smells amazing, but Dean was fairly certain that he didn't have any food in his house last night. He'd been living on a steady diet of whiskey and Cheetos, so Cas must have gone shopping.

“Morning,” Dean says, his voice still groggy with sleep. Cas turns off the stove and moves the pan of eggs off to the side, the bacon already finished and sitting on a paper-towel lined plate.

“Good morning, Dean,” he replies, fluffing the eggs with the spatula, “you're in a much better mood than I expected.”

“Kind of hard to be upset when there's a hot guy in my kitchen making me breakfast.”

“True,” Cas winks, then pulls a couple plates out of the cupboard and splits the food between them. They bring their plates to the table and sit.

Dean isn't sure how hungry he is, considering he still feels pretty sick from last night, but his appreciation for the act of kindness far outweighs the fear of throwing any of it up. The first forkful of eggs is delicious. He can't remember the last time anyone cooked something for him.

Cas looks pretty happy too, despite whatever weirdness has occurred between them so far, and Dean finds himself wondering how the hell he's managed to keep Cas orbiting around his life despite all the attempts to kick him off course. He knows he's missing huge chunks of memory from the night before, but maybe it wasn't so bad considering Cas is still here and eating breakfast with him.

It makes him wonder why he was trying so hard to get rid of Cas at all.

“I, uh...” Dean starts, still trying to formulate the words on his tongue into a sentence, “I'm sorry, for what I did to your car. Quite frankly, I'm not sure why you're even still talking to me.”

Cas tilts his head in that cute way Dean noticed before, finishing the food in his mouth before replying. “I meant what I said. I never really liked that car or the memories that came with it, and it was just one more way for my family to try and control me. You did something I had been fantasizing about for years. If anything, I'm just jealous you did it without me. Would have been fun to trash it together,” he smirks, tearing off a piece of bacon and popping it in his mouth.

He could watch Cas eat bacon all day long.

“I've been thinking,” Cas continues, “do you remember what I said about kissing more when you were sober?”

Dean scrapes the plate with his fork, trying not to blush. There really is a lot missing from his memory. “Uh, no, not really.”

“I wasn't sure if you would,” Cas nods, clearing his plate and bringing it to the sink to be rinsed off, “I told you that I would be more than happy to kiss you again when you sobered up, but I've changed my mind.”

Ah yes, the stinging reminder of why he didn't want to get close to anyone. “Ouch.”

“I'm not finished,” he says, his tone becoming more serious, “I have learned a great deal about you in our short time knowing each other, and you're quite selfish. You spend too much time wading around in the dark waters of your mind to notice the golden beaches waiting for you only a few feet away. Bad things happen to everyone, Dean, and if you could manage to pull your head out of your ass for five minutes, you'd see just how many people love you and want the best for you.”

Wonderful, another lecture on how he should be living his life. Dean pushes his plate away, losing his appetite and frowning at the table.

“What I'm trying to say, Dean, is that as much as I'd love to kiss you, I'm worried that you'd let me fall for you and then back out as soon as it got too real or scary for you. You're not the only one who's been abandoned by family or ditched by someone you thought would never leave. The only difference between you and me is that I'm not afraid to admit how much being attracted to you scares me.”

Cas is a liar, Dean thinks. He really is a fucking mind reader.

He mulls over Cas' words for a minute, replaying them in his head until he's sure he understands what Cas was getting at with clarity. His family abandoned him too, kicked him out when they found out he was gay, made him move away from everything he knew and take a job at a different campus. The poor guy isn't even allowed back at his family's church. The siblings he was close to are either gone or not talking to him, and didn't he say something about having a heartbreaking ex last night?

Yeah, Dean is an asshole. A blind, arrogant asshole that is apparently only capable of seeing his own problems. He is so much more like his dad than he thought.

“I get it,” he says, finally brave enough to respond to Cas, who must have the patience of a saint, “I'm every bit as capable of hurting you, as you are of hurting me. Except so far I'm the only one doing any of the hurting.”

“Bingo.”

There's a beat of silence, then, “Okay, so what do I have to do so you'll let me kiss you again?”

Cas laughs, grabbing Dean's plate from the table and taking it to the sink as well. “For starters, we could actually go on a date. Sober,” he clarifies, then, “and you could tell me about Lisa.”

Lisa?

Did Dean actually talk about Lisa last night? Shit. He fucking hopes to God he didn't say anything too personal or off-putting. But he must have said _something_ interesting, enough that Cas wants to know more about her.

“I brought her up when I was drunk, didn't I?” Cas nods, and Dean groans in reply. “What do you want to know?”

Cas refills his coffee cup and pours one for Dean, bringing them both to the table and sitting back down. It briefly reminds him of the first time Cas came into Bobby's shop, and he huffs.

“You didn't say much, just that you thought she left because she hated your father, that you miss her sometimes,” he explains, then pauses to sip on his mug. “I take it you two were serious?”

Dean doesn't really want to get into too much detail, but he supposes the story between him and Lisa isn't exactly a secret. Pretty much everyone in Lawrence knows they were together and how it ended, so Cas will find out sooner or later. Might as well hear the truth from the source.

“We dated for a while, yeah. Sam left just over two years ago, and she showed up not too long after that. She was really great, you know? Like, super easy to love. Laid back, happy, just – I don't know how to describe it. I thought everything was going perfect, but then one day she started acting weird for no reason. For a whole week she was being distant and ignoring my phone calls. I panicked, bought her a ring and proposed. She said yes and was really happy about it, but then a few days later I got home and there was a note on the dining table with the ring. She said she didn't want to see me anymore. Couldn't even say it to my face. It only happened about three months ago, so I guess it's still pretty fresh.”

Cas had been silently listening, nodding in attention until he heard it was a mere three months ago, causing his eyebrows to jump into his hairline. He processed it for a minute, sipping on his coffee.

“I'm really sorry to hear that, Dean. That must have been very difficult.”

“The worst part is that she basically did to me what Sammy did. She just left without warning or explanation. She moved out of Lawrence, too, I don't even know where she is.”

“Have you tried looking for her?”

“Hell no,” Dean snaps, a little too quickly, “She wanted to be gone, so she's gone. We don't owe each other anything, and I've got no reason to chase her down,” he says, trying to be as convincing as possible. “What about you? Who's got their footprints all over your heart?”

Cas laughs at that, rolling his eyes. Dean can't help the way his smile makes him blush.

“He was a co-worker at the university. We dated in secret for nearly three years. At first it was because I was still a student, but even after I graduated and was hired, I wasn't ready to come out. He gave me an ultimatum, and I chose to break off the relationship rather than tell people I was gay. I wasn't ashamed, but I knew the consequences from my family would be severe. I wasn't ready to give up my family.”

“So how did your family find out?”

“Ironically, my eldest brother found a stash of old notes that Baz had written me when we first started dating. When Baz discovered I had been outed and was being moved here, he wanted to start up a relationship again, but I still haven't forgiven him for forcing my hand the way he did. I don't like ultimatums, and I don't like that he made the end of our relationship my fault when he was the one really ending it.”

Dean knows he should say something meaningful, or at least a little heartfelt, but he's a Winchester and that means he's not always the best at serious, substantial replies. Instead, he makes an awkward joke and steers the conversation elsewhere. It's surprisingly frustrating to hear that Cas had been involved with anyone else prior to meeting Dean and he doesn't want to think too much about it.

“Cas and Baz, huh? Well it's a shame that interesting name pairing had to come to an end,” Dean adds sarcastically. When Cas doesn't immediately laugh or reply, Dean's worried he overstepped a line and offended him. He backtracks in his mind, trying to think of something he can say to remedy the awkward position he just put himself in.

But Cas chuckles, and says, “I like Cas and Dean better, personally.”

Dean can't stop himself from smiling. He can't seem to help anything he does when Cas is around.

“Me too.”

Cas gets up from the table again and stretches, and Dean tries not to stare blatantly at the small strip of exposed flesh when his arms are above his head.

“I've got to get going, it's almost noon and I have a list of things to get done,” Cas says, finishing off what was left in his coffee mug. “You should call Bobby today, let him know you're okay.”

“Thanks to you,” Dean quips with a wink.

“Do me a favor, will you? Stay sober until I see you again. Worrying about you has been exhausting. Oh, and keep the blanket. You're the only person in Kansas who doesn't have a single blanket in their house.”

He nods, unwilling to make any promises but will certainly try. Cas is still wearing his sweats when he slips on his shoes and jacket, so he asks, “Are you walking home like that?”

“You probably haven't noticed, since you've been constantly drunk for the last couple of weeks, but I live just down the street. I thought you would have realized that the night we found you in your Impala, but I guess you were pretty smashed then, too.”

Huh.

Dean's not sure if he likes how close Cas will be living, especially if they end up getting serious with each other. He doesn't want it to feel like they're living right on top of each other, but then again Lawrence is a pretty small place. Almost everything is within walking distance, a fact that Dean happens to like, so he's sure he can find a way to appreciate this, too.

“See you later, Winchester,” he says, and then he's out the door.

Dean stays at the dining table for just a bit longer, sipping on his coffee and trying to remember everything that happened last night. He feels like he's in shock, but kind of in a good way. He had tried forcing Cas out of his life only a few days ago, yet there he was making breakfast in his kitchen and talking about future kissing potential. It makes his head spin, but so does everything about Cas. If it didn't, he wouldn't be so damn scared right now.

Or happy, he realizes. For the first time in months, despite the grim and horrible direction his life has been taking, he can see a light at the end of the tunnel. He's hung over, feeling sick but full of coffee and eggs, sitting at his table staring at the spot where Cas had just been, and he's in a good fucking mood.

Good enough that he thinks he can start repairing his friendships, and good enough that he thinks he can find his brother if he tries hard enough.

Now all he needs to do is get his goddamn keys from Benny. 


	6. Chapter 6

“Dean! Hurry the fuck up!”

“Wait a fucking minute, would ya?”

Jo is pounding on the bathroom door, impatiently reminding Dean that the Roadhouse only has one employee bathroom and that he's hogging it like a self-obsessed drama queen. He knows she's doing it on purpose, she just used the bathroom fifteen minutes ago and there's no way her bladder is that small.

“He already thinks you're pretty, jackass! I can smell the hairspray out here!”

“I'm not using hairspray, Jo!” He barks, defensive about his hair, “Shuddup!”

Dean knows he's being silly about it, but it's too late to come down from the high of excitement he has going on right now. He would never admit out loud just how nervous he is, but his anxious behavior has given him away. This is his fourth trip to the bathroom in two hours, checking himself out in the mirror and self-consciously fixing his hair. He seldom tries this hard to look presentable, but he's got a date tonight and Cas could show up at any time to pick him up.

The worst part about his frequent bathroom trips is that Cas has already seen him in a variety of compromising positions, drunk and unshaven and even right after vomiting. There's no reason for him to spend this much time trying to make sure he doesn't look homeless when the man already knows what Dean looks like. If Cas can see him beat up, in nothing but boxers, drunk and smelling like vomit and urine, and _still_ want to take him out on a date, then Dean could probably wear dirty sweats and it would still be okay.

And yet, here he is, staring at his reflection in the mirror and wondering what else he can do to make himself look worthy of a date with Castiel Novak.

“Dean!”

“Fine! I'm coming!”

He's working an evening shift at the Roadhouse, his first night back on the job after the couple of weeks he had off. Jo was quick to pretend like Dean's destructive behavior had never happened, welcoming him back with a beer and a wink. Ellen has been less willing to forgive and forget, not that she had any reason to be upset with him, but it's weird to have her walking around him like he's made of eggshells. She's not the kind of woman who keeps her mouth shut about anything, but tonight it's like her lips have been sealed with gorilla glue.

Dean doesn't care too much as long as no one tries to mention John or the Chevelle.

It was a painful two weeks, the worst in his life, but he's been on some kind of upswing and he doesn't want to let it go. Maybe it's a coping mechanism, maybe it's denial or relief or just unapologetic happiness, he doesn't care. He's not feeling like he wants to jump off a bridge, and that's a good thing. He's going to do whatever it takes to keep it going as long as it will go. He needs it.

Living near Cas proved to be way more beneficial than he thought. It had only been a few days since Dean learned just how close they were living, but it didn't feel weird or suffocating at all. Sure, this thing between them was still new and undefined, but they weren't up each other's asses or turning it into something creepy. It was actually kind of nice, the first time he wrote Cas a note and stuck it in his mailbox. Cas read it that evening and wrote one back, sticking it in Dean's mailbox the next morning. They'd been communicating that way for a few days, with little cutesy flirtations written on scraps of paper like they were in junior high, but Dean didn't mind it one bit. It was one hell of a nice way to wake up, knowing there was a message waiting for him outside.

This morning, the note Dean found in his mailbox told him to dress up for work, because Cas was going to pick him up and take him somewhere nice. He'd be lying if he said he didn't bounce around his house that morning, excited for their first real date.

He did wear something nice today, though he's not really sure what Cas' definition of 'nice' is. Nice for Dean means a pair of light wash jeans and a blue-gray button up shirt that Charlie once said made him look downright fuckable. With the number of tips and phone numbers he's been getting tonight, he's guessing she was right, but he can't help feeling like it might not be enough. Cas is downright fuckable himself and keeping up with that level of sexy will be a challenge.

Dean leaves the bathroom and shrugs apologetically at Jo, who winks at him and slaps his ass when he walks by. He flinches slightly but otherwise ignores it, until she turns to follow him down the hallway.

“I knew you didn't have to use the damn bathroom,” Dean says, looking over his shoulder at a smiling Jo.

“You are _so_ gone for this guy, aren't you? It's about time, Winchester. You need a little something good in your life.”

“I thought that's what I had you for,” he jokes, stepping in behind the bar, “and pie. Pie makes everyone happy.”

“I bet Castiel likes cream pies,” Jo intones, making Dean turn five shades of red. Thank God for the harsh neon lights above them, otherwise she'd make fun of that too.

He serves a couple of ladies sitting in their bar stools and giggling with each other, each ordering whatever was on tap. They're staring at him with wide, lust blown eyes and licking their lips like it's going out of style. The brunette in red falls somewhere in the middle of Dean's hotness scale, maybe slightly above average, but the blonde in black beside her definitely lands toward the top. He has no intention of hooking up with her, but it's always easier to flirt someone he's actually attracted to, and if he's learned anything being a bartender it's that flirting equals more tips.

Dean pretty much needs all the money he can get.

So when he leans over the counter a little further than usual, smiles extra wide at her lame jokes, and lets his fingers brush against hers when he hands her a beer, it's not with sex in mind. Oddly, it's with money in mind and how he can spend it on the hot guy he's waiting on.

The blonde's name is Kate, and she shamelessly kicks up the flirting with lingering touches of her own. Dean is talking to her about cars, something she clearly knows nothing about, but her fingers are playing with the little button on his cuff and her bright red nails scrape gently over the fabric. She's looking up at him through mascara-thick lashes, saying something he's not really paying attention to, then her matching red lips plant a quick kiss on his collar.

It's something the old Dean Winchester would have loved, he might of even playfully told her to aim a little lower, but he's got a date tonight and now his nice shirt is practically stained with whorish lipstick right where anyone can see it. He's pretty sure Cas won't be turned on by its presence.

“Sorry girls, this one's taken,” Jo says, grabbing Dean by the arm and yanking him back, “or have you forgotten that already, Sparky?”

“No ma'am,” he replies, thankful for the interruption, “have a good night, ladies.”

The brunette looks just as relieved as Dean does for the interruption, probably tired of being the awkward third wheel in their short-lived trio, but Kate pouts and narrows her eyes at Jo. She reaches into her purse and pulls out a twenty dollar bill, writes her phone number on it and hands to Dean with a wink.

“For the next time you find yourself available,” she says with a voice like spun sugar, “you can use this to take me on a date.”

“You're a pretty cheap date,” Jo remarks, snatching the money from Dean's hands and slapping it back on the bar in front of the blonde, “why don't you use it to buy some ice cream, so you have something to stuff your face with instead of this guy's cock.”

“Jo!” Dean cries, burning with embarrassment, taking the money back and shoving it in his pocket. Kate is fuming, but relaxes when he winks at her again and promises to call. She leaves with her friend, but Jo is still steaming out her ears with arms folded across her chest.

“What are you doing?” Jo bites, dragging him into the back for some privacy. Dean doesn't understand what the big fucking deal is, it's nothing he hasn't done a million times before, the only difference is that now he really needs the money to keep himself from being homeless. Jo looks disgusted, and he doesn't know how to answer.

“My job? I work for tips, Jo, that's nothing new.”

“This better not be some kind of self-sabotage thing before your date tonight. I'm not letting you fuck this up for yourself,” she hisses, still gripping his arm.

“No way! I only have one job now, I need all the money I can get,” he says, trying to convince her. Her grips loosens slightly as she shifts her weight.

“I'm warning you, just because you've been happy the last couple of days doesn't mean everyone's magically forgotten all the shit that's happened. I will not hesitate to kick your ass for your own good, Winchester.”

“So creepy, Jo, you sound like your mom,” he says, taking a step back and tugging his arm out of her death grip. She lets him go. “You're almost as scary as her, too. Shit.”

“Shut up. The only reason I'm letting you keep that money is because you're going to use it to buy an industrial sized bottle of lube for all the glorious gay sex you'll be having with your lover-boy, okay?”

“Ugh, only you could make _glorious gay sex_ sound so...unsexy.”

“I mean it,” Jo says with finality, stepping back toward the door, “you're not the only one I'm worried about, either. Castiel is too nice a person for you to hurt. I would kill for you, Dean, but if you break that guy's heart I will not hesitate to feed you your own intestines.”

Gross.

He doesn't like the lecture, but he appreciates it all the same. He knows Jo has his best interest at heart, but he's tired of being treated like someone who needs watched over. Sure, he brought it on himself, but he's trying to change that.

“Since when has everyone become Cas' friend, anyway? He hasn't even been here that long,” Dean says, confused by how quickly his so-called friends are jumping to Cas' defense.

“Just because you get drunk and block out the world doesn't mean the world stops existing,” she says, then leaves through the door. He can hear her footsteps fade the further away they get, until she's at the bar and helping a customer.

Dean reaches into his pocket and feels the twenty, wondering how out of line it is to flirt with a customer when you have a kinda-sorta boyfriend. He didn't think it was that big of deal, but now the money makes him feel like a whore. It's not like he was actually going to call her, and he really does need the money, but maybe Jo had a point. Cas writes him good-morning love notes and stays when he's asked and cooks delicious-as-fuck scrambled eggs. Dean wouldn't trade that for twenty bucks, so maybe that's how he needs to approach the way he gets tips from now on.

And yeah, he knows he's not forgiven. He's fucked a lot of shit up in the last few weeks and he still has a long way to go. He sent Charlie a text the morning Cas made him breakfast, after he called Bobby and told him he was doing okay. She still hasn't replied, and it makes him feel sick.

He talked to Bobby again this morning, and learned that Charlie is the one in charge of repairing the Chevelle. They're fixing it up and not charging Cas a cent for the work, and even gave Cas a temporary vehicle to drive while they do the necessary repairs. Charlie refused the phone when Bobby offered it to her.

It'll take time to get her back, he knows, but it feels wrong to be happy without her.

Dean goes back into the bathroom and splashes his face with cool water, trying to rid his face of the blush that took it over. He pats himself dry and then gets to work scrubbing the red lips off his collar, feeling like one of those cheating husbands as he does so. When he's done, the lips are gone but that part of his shirt is damp and darkened and not at all subtle. _Oh well_ , he thinks. It will dry eventually, hopefully before Cas shows up.

By the time he's back out, a rush of patrons have crowded the bar and Jo is running back and forth trying to keep up. He quickly catches up and matches her pace, manning one side of the bar while Jo does the other. They're pouring drinks and casually flirting with whoever flirts first, Dean keeping his to a minimum, and as the time flies by he starts to feel like everything is back to normal.

He knows it's not, that it's actually rather far from normal, but he didn't realize how much he missed this. Working with Jo like it's just any other day is as therapeutic as feeling his Baby's engine rumble.

Baby's keys, though, are still with Benny. He hasn't exactly had the balls to go to the cafe and ask for them back.

It's not that Dean is scared of Benny, because he isn't. If Dean hadn't of been drunk, he would have fought back or outright kicked his ass. He had been wasted and looking for punishment, and that's what he got. Plus, there's still a small chance that Benny doesn't actually have the keys, that they're somewhere in that abandoned farm field waiting for Dean to come find them. It would be super embarrassing to track that asshole down only to discover that he never had them.

Dean sure does miss driving his Baby, though.

His train of thought is interrupted when he sees Jo aggressively seducing a guy at the end of the bar, young looking and giving back to Jo as much as he's getting. She's playfully tugging at his tie, and leaning over the bar in such a way that her small-but-perky tits look huge and squished together. He rarely sees her for the woman that she is, instead of the younger sister filter beat into him by Ellen, but right now he thinks she looks truly beautiful.

Beautiful, but not in a perverted or creepy way. He loves her like a sister, he really does, but that means he's never assessed her attractiveness or ability to settle down. Right now, her hair is half-up and held back with some kind of hair clip, the rest falling in pale ringlets over her shoulders and framing her oval face. She's so pretty, and he doesn't understand why she's never been in a serious relationship.

Then he gets a good look at the guy she's drooling over. He's got dark-blonde hair, blue-green eyes and a strong chin, maybe an inch or two shorter than Dean but absurdly familiar looking. There's something about the way his face is put together that reminds him of John, but he pushes the thought out of his head. It makes sense though, he understands. The guy sorta looks like Dean, and Jo had been pretty honest not that long ago about her feelings for him.

It's probably why she hasn't been with anyone long term. She's had her heart set on Dean since childhood and he rejected her as gently as he could. She handled it pretty well, and hasn't let it come between them. Not once did she let it turn into something awkward and friendship killing. He's got to respect her for that, to have that kind of willpower and self-esteem. It doesn't ease his guilt, but hopefully soon she'll find someone better and move on. Jo deserves that.

She comes over to Dean, who shakes himself from his speculations and nods toward the guy. She smiles and says, “Cute, huh? His name is Adam. First hot straight guy to come into this bar in a long time, so keep your paws off him.”

Dean laughs at that, rolling his eyes. “Not my type, sweetheart.”

“Ah, so I'm not the only one you've said that to, it seems.”

Both Dean and Jo turn their heads toward the scruffy voice behind them, and Dean's insides feel like they're twisting into new shapes when he sees who it is. Benny is sitting at the bar, digging his hands into a bowl of mixed nuts and popping them into his mouth. He leers at Dean with an intensity that makes him feel naked and raw.

Dean's mouth is frozen shut, and Jo doesn't seem to be fairing any better. She's staring back at Benny with wide eyes, her jaw clenched and grinding. There's a beat of intense, painfully awkward silence until Benny reaches into his pocket and pulls out Dean's keys, dangling them just above the bar where he's sitting.

“Give me my fucking keys,” Dean growls, ignoring the way his heart speeds in his chest and the tremble in his knees. Shit, maybe he is more scared of the guy than he thought.

Jo is still standing in place, unmoving, mouth closed. She looks almost as scared as Dean feels, which freaks him out more than Benny does just by being there. Jo doesn't take shit from anyone and he distinctly remembers hearing her bitch about wanting the chance to knock some of Benny's teeth loose. Here he is, and neither of them seem to be handling it with any strength or finesse at all.

Benny just laughs and shakes his head, closing his fist around the bundle of keys. “Look at you, all dolled up and prettified. Going somewhere special, Dean?”

“None of your fucking business,” he bites back, embarrassed by the shakiness of his voice. “Give me the keys.”

“I've been thinking a lot about what happened between us, Winchester, and I've come to a few conclusions,” he says, putting the keys back in his pocket. Dean wants so badly to leap over the bar and strangle him, but he knows he can't. He desperately needs this job and can't afford to lose it like his mechanic gig. He can't give Ellen any reason to not want him back. “At first I thought you were just a closeted softie, too afraid to let your big bad daddy find out you like dick, but now I have some new theories on that.”

“Get out,” Jo finally snaps, even though the rest of her is still quivering, feet glued to the ground.

“Or what, princess?” Benny challenges, “Why don't you run along and iron a shirt or something, braid someone's hair or make a sandwich. You're not needed in this conversation.”

Jo spins on her heels, storming toward the back, “I'm calling Jody!”

Dean wants to follow Jo into the back, and he knows that's exactly what he should be doing, but all the pathetic parts of him have blossomed in the last five minutes and rooted him to the ground. Besides, Benny has his keys, and he can't let him leave without getting those back first.

“You're a slut.”

“Excuse me?”

“That's my new theory, Dean. You're a slut for attention. You don't care what you have to do to get it, and you soak it up like the little bukkake whore you are,” he explains, staring intently at Dean's lips as he does so.

Dean's heart is beating erratically against the wall of his lungs, his toes and fingertips tingling without an adequate blood supply. He can feel the panic attack swelling in his gut, his intestines completely rearranging themselves in a heroic effort to get him to vomit. He bites it back, cursing at himself for being such a weak asshole, and does what he can to stand his ground without getting fired.

“If you give me my keys and leave, I'll consider _not_ pressing charges,” Dean says, stepping forward and putting both hands on the bar.

“And what exactly would you have me charged with? Last I checked, you love it when a guy gets rough,” he smirks, eyes trailing up and down Dean's body, “Is this something you really want to drag through the mud, Winchester? I'd have no problem telling Jody about all the times you told me to hurt you, if it would help my case.”

Dean is shaking obviously now, unable to stop his body's reaction to Benny's threats and presence. He squeezes his eyes and counts slowly to ten, trying desperately to calm himself down before he passes out or hits the guy in the face with a beer bottle. He has to fight against his first instinct to drink something strong to calm him down, he promised Cas he wouldn't do that anymore, but he can't just sit here and take shit from Benny fucking Lafitte.

It doesn't help that Benny actually has a goddamn point. There's no way he would ever risk exposing himself that much, not if this asshole has no shame and would willingly detail all the things they'd done together. What little blood in his body that hasn't stalled in his heart has rushed to his face, traitorously revealing his cowardice.

“What do you want?”

“Well this is new, you're asking me what _I_ want for a change,” Benny laughs.

“Get on with it, asshole,” Dean's knuckles are white and straining against the tight flesh of his hand. This is getting bad, and he keeps wondering where the fuck Jo is and if she's called Jody yet for backup.

“You owe me, Dean. You used me whenever you wanted, and I let you have it because I thought you had feelings for me. I even let you right back in to my life after you left me high and dry for that Lisa chick. So tell me, slut, how long until you've played out your cards with this new boyfriend of yours and come crawling back to me like you always do?”

“How do you even know about him?” Dean blurts, paranoid now that he's being watched or followed.

Benny leans over the bar counter and says, “Small town, remember? Good thing your daddy died before he found out what cock hungry slut you are.”

And just like that, Dean is over the top of the bar and tackling Benny to the ground.

“Dean!”

He doesn't care who's calling out his name, or about the hands grabbing at his clothes and limbs as he sits on Benny's chest, searching his pockets for the keys. His brain is on a single track of concentration, everything else on auto pilot as he keeps the asshole pinned to the ground and digs around for – oh, hey, there they are.

Ah, his Baby's keys, back in his hands where they belong.

“DEAN, MOVE!”

He hears the voice now and lets whoever is pulling on him drag him up and off Benny, who is cussing and threatening everyone in a five mile radius. Dean feels strangely at peace now that he's got his keys back, not having them almost felt like he was missing a part of his soul.

Dean's mind returns to his body and he focuses on what's happening around him. Benny is still on the ground, but Ellen is towering above him with a shotgun pointed right at his dick. Jo has a fistful of Dean's sleeve, pulling him away from the line of fire that might rain down directly on Benny's genitals, and he can't help but laugh.

“Jody's on her way, Momma,” Jo calls out, and that's when he looks down and notices the blood on Benny's face. His nose looks broken, and when Jo grabs Dean's hand to inspect it, he sees a matching smear across the back of his knuckles.

“You ever come back into this bar, I'll paint bull's eyes on your balls and show you how good my aim is,” Ellen states, still firmly gripping the shotgun in her hand, “and if you ever come around Dean again, no matter where he's at, I'll hang your dick up like a mistletoe for him and his boyfriend to kiss under. You understand me?”

Benny nods, frantically.

“Good,” she says, “now get the fuck out of my bar.”

He scrambles around on the ground for a moment, disoriented, but finally manages to get up on his feet and scurry out the door, not looking back.

“You okay?” Ellen asks, lowering her gun and looking at Dean. He's pretty sure he is, but his hand hurts like hell and there's blood on his shirt.

Oh, fuck. Is he going to get fired for this?

Dean steps back, raking a hand through his hair and pulling away from Jo. His heart hasn't slowed since it first started galloping in his chest, awareness dawning on him that he's lightheaded and needs to sit down, like right the fuck now.

“Please don't fire me,” he says, his knees feeling weak, “I'm sorry.”

“Fire you? Kid, I'm surprised you didn't tackle him sooner. I would'a done so the second I saw him come in here. You're not fired,” Ellen promises, patting his back. “You are, however, covered in blood and looking like you're going to faint. Sit down.”

Jo grabs his arm again and pulls him down into a booth, rubbing a hand across his back. “You okay? What the hell did he say to you?”

“I'm fine,” he breathes, resting his elbows on the table. “Your mom is scary.”

“Yup, one of my favorite qualities about her, actually. You going to tell me what he said, or not?” Jo asks, lowering her voice.

“What do you think he said, Jo? He called me a slut, _repeatedly_ , until I couldn't take it anymore.”

Ellen approaches the table with a tray of shot glasses and sets it down, picking one of the glasses up between her fingers and downing it in a swift gulp. “Drink,” she commands, motioning for Dean and Jo to follow suit.

Jo grabs one without hesitation and downs it, but Dean doesn't move. He looks at the clear liquid filling the tray of shot glasses and remembers his promise to Cas, unwilling to break it just because Benny showed up in an attempt to ruin the night.

“Drink,” Ellen repeats, looking directly at Dean.

“I have a date tonight,” Dean offers in defense, scratching at the blood on the back of his hand. “Besides, I thought I was supposed to avoid this stuff.”

“You're shaking like a leaf and you're two seconds away from dropping to the ground. Do what you're told like a good boy so I can get back to what I was doing,” she says, placing the alcohol right in front of him. “You'll thank me when you make it through your date without collapsing.”

Jo giggles beside him, turning the command into a challenge. Any more emasculation today and he really will turn into a fucking girl.

“Fine,” he resigns, lifting the little glass to his lips and knocking it back. The vodka burns down his throat and makes him cough, but Ellen simply pushes a second one toward him on the table before walking off.

“I'm not drinking that second one,” Dean insists, a little more bravely now that Ellen's gone. Jo doesn't care, taking it for herself, then licks at the last few remaining drops.

Jody shows up not long after Jo is buzzed and Dean feels slightly more relaxed, the color returning to his skin as his heart slows down to a normal pace. He doesn't want to give a statement or press charges, he just wants to be done with the whole thing and move on as quickly as possible.

Jody sits at the booth across from Dean and Jo, looking them over and then inspecting his hand for any damage. It doesn't hurt anymore, but he's not sure if that's because it wasn't injured too badly or if the vodka is doing an A+ job at numbing the pain. Jody doesn't seem too impressed or bothered by what she sees, so he figures he got away with minimal damage. None of the blood on him is his anyway, and he really needs to shower or change to get Benny's bodily fluids off him.

Jo is moping with her head down on the table, angry that Adam disappeared during the confrontation before she could get his number. Dean assures her that he'll be back, that he seemed just as enthralled by her as she was of him, and Jody just watches the two of them talking for a minute without interrupting. When Jo eventually stops whining almost ten minutes later, Jody speaks up.

“What do you want me to do about all this, Dean?”

He wants to tell her to forget it, that he's sorry she had to come all this way just to turn around and go back home, but then he really looks at her for the first time since she's shown up. She's in full uniform with a notepad in her hand, and it makes the question way more official than he'd like it to be. He guesses it was too much to hope that she would have been home and not on duty, because now she has to treat it like the real police call it is.

“I don't really want to do anything about it, if that's okay,” he answers, avoiding her gaze.

“It's up to you, Dean. But I think you need to get a restraining order. I don't know the whole story here, but it's my understanding that this man assaulted you and then left you to die,” she says, her voice soft and understanding. She reaches across the table and places her hand over his, and he doesn't mind it all. It actually feels kind of comforting. “I'm not going to bother you about it, but if you decide that's what you want, you just let me know.”

He nods, appreciating the gesture and the effort on her part, thankful that he wasn't cornered or pressured into doing more than he wanted to do. He clearly underestimated Benny's obsessive side, not that he really knew he had one to begin with, but Dean wants to avoid having to deal with him as much as possible. Especially with Benny's threats to tell everyone about the stuff they've done together. He'd rather die than have to live with everyone knowing those secrets.

It's not that what Benny said was really true, though. Dean didn't like being abused and he definitely didn't like being pissed on, but sometimes he just needed to be manhandled. It was embarrassing, because being a guy means being tough and being tough means you're the one doing all the manhandling in bed, but he loved the way it felt to relinquish that control and let someone else take over the wheel.

Which is definitely not anyone's fucking business.

Ramble On starts blaring from his cellphone, muffled by his jeans, but he hears it just in time to pull it out of his pocket and see who it is.

Unknown Number.

It's starting to freak him out, how often the Unknown Number has been calling his phone. At first he thought it was Cas, and didn't answer because he was too nervous, but now he has Cas' number programmed into his phone. He has no idea who else it could be, until his twisted-up guts remind him that it could possibly be Benny and that makes him feel...well, gross, and really creeped out.

Jo leans over and looks at his phone just as it stops ringing. They both wait a minute to see if the person leaves a voice mail, but whoever it is hasn't left one yet so he doubts they will this time. Just as Dean is about to put the phone back in his pocket, it starts ringing again, the Unknown Number.

“Let me answer it,” Jo says, taking the cellphone from his hands and tapping the little green button, bringing it up to her ear. “Hello?” A pause. “Who?”

Dean watches as Jo's face scrunches up in confusion, one side of her lip curling up in a threat to growl. “Look, _Jessica,_ he's not interested in whatever you're selling, got it? He's taken,” she says, her words slowed by the vodka in the system. There's another short pause, then, “If it's so important, you would have left a voice mail or something, and what's with the blocked number anyway?”

A sharp bolt of lightning bites Dean in the ass as he realizes the person could be calling about Sammy.

“Give me the phone!” He barks, reaching over Jo and grabbing the phone from her hands. He brings it to his ear and says, “Hello? _Hello_?”

The caller already hung up.

“Dammit,” he groans, “what did she say?”

Jo shrugs her shoulders and reaches for another shot glass. “She asked for a Dean Winchester and said it was important. Wouldn't say anything else. You been giving out your number to customers or anything?”

“Not in a long time,” he admits, running his thumb over the darkened screen of his phone. He can't shake the nagging feeling that he might have really fucked up by not answering. “Hey, Jody? Can you do me a favor?”

She shifts in her seat with a smile and nods, “What do you need?”

“Sammy,” he says, putting his phone back in his pocket. “I need to find Sammy, I think. He doesn't even know about dad, and that's just...it's wrong. Do you think you can help me find a last known address for him? A phone number? Anything?”

Jo's jaw practically drops off her face. Drunk or not, it's kind of hilarious.

“I'll see what I can do, alright? But I've got to leave now, duty calls,” Jody states, giving Dean's hand a final pat as she stands and waves goodbye.

Jo looks over, jaw still comically hanging off her face. “Holy shit, it's about goddamn time, Winchester.”

“What do you mean?”

“Um, obviously I mean everyone's been waiting for this. Everyone misses Sam, even if he was an asshole when he left, but if any of us went out looking for him, you'd have killed us,” she pokes his arm, leaning on him because she's starting to act a little tipsy.

“Yeah, I guess that's true.”

“Of course it's true,” Jo insists, slamming one hand on the table with a smile on her face, “Can I help?”

Before Dean can answer, they're interrupted by a very worried looking Castiel, who has _finally_ showed up, but his eyes are wildly darting around the bar and back to Dean. When he spots the blood on Dean's hand and sleeve, he sits at the booth where Jody had been sitting and leans over the table, grabbing his arm.

“Are you okay?” Cas asks, turning his arm over and inspecting it. His hand feels warm and firm, which sends prickling darts of pleasure up his arm and down his spine. Yeah, he certainly wouldn't mind being manhandled by Cas.

“I'm fine,” Dean reassures, letting Cas look over his arm for a third time, not at all minding the careful way he's being touched and held.

“I pulled into the parking lot and saw a cop car, and then all the people outside were talking about how some guy got his ass kicked,” Cas explains, his eyebrows knitting together in concern, “I thought it might have been you, but now I'm thinking you're the one who did the kicking.”

Jo laughs, and Cas looks over to her for a moment, reluctantly taking his eyes off Dean.

“What's so funny?” Dean asks, a small smile spreading on his face.

“You were trying so hard to look perfect for your date tonight, like, in the bathroom _non-stop_ , but he finally shows up and you're covered in blood with your hair sticking in eight different directions,” she giggles, pinching a chunk of his hair between her fingers. Dean blushes, embarrassed, tilting his head and hair away from Jo's hand.

“You do look very nice,” Cas assures, tracing his fingertips across the back of Dean's bloodstained knuckles, “but we will have to get you cleaned up before I take you out. I'm fairly certain that crusted blood isn't appropriate attire for where I'm taking you.”

Jo is laughing out loud now, doubled over against the table and turning red. “He was like an animal, Castiel, you should have seen the way he flew over the bar and attacked Benny!”

Cas' expression changes from pleasure to worry at the mention of Benny's name, gripping Dean's hand a little tighter in his own. “What happened?”

“I'll tell you about it later,” Dean says, nudging Jo, “I get it, it's hilarious, now can you let me out? I have a date to get to.”

“Don't forget to buy that industrial sized bottle of lube!”

“JO!”

Dean knows he must look ridiculous with how red and burning his face feels, but Cas doesn't mention it or make him feel worse about it. He just smiles at Jo and puts a hand on Dean's shoulder, guiding him out the front door and to the parking lot. When they make it to Cas' temporary vehicle, which turns out to be a decent sized Silverado truck, Cas gently pushes him against the door and puts one hand on each side of his body. His hands must be cold on the metal of the truck, but he doesn't seem bothered by it.

“If you weren't covered in blood with Benny fresh on your mind, I'd be rather tempted to kiss you,” Cas says, his voice fluid and steady. Dean would love nothing more than to have his mouth occupied by the gorgeous man in front of him, but he won't push the issue. He's not going to kiss him again unless Cas initiates it.

“I was going to take you out to a nice place in Topeka, but now I think I'd rather rent a movie and spend the evening with you on my couch,” Cas leans in a little closer, his lips ghosting over the curve of Dean's ear, “I'm tired of having to compete for your attention, and if I take you out looking this good, that's exactly what I'll have to do.”

Dean wants to protest, to insist that Cas is the single sexiest man he's ever seen and that there's no way anyone else could compare, but he doesn't think that's what Cas wants to hear. No, he wants to hear Dean say that he doesn't care where they go or what they do as long as they're together. It's cheesy and corny and sweet enough to cause diabetes, but he's beyond the point of caring.

“Works for me,” Dean agrees, “I bet there's some fun things we could do with popcorn, too.”

Cas smiles, and goddamn it's so brilliant it borders on heart-breakingly scary.

 _Love notes_ , he reminds himself. This guy writes him love notes. It's more than worth it.  


	7. Chapter 7

Dean is up at the ass crack of dawn, pouring himself a cup of too-strong coffee while he waits impatiently, one bare foot tapping against the linoleum kitchen floor. The sun has yet to rise, so he can barely see out the window above the sink into the street. There's just enough light coming from bulb above the stove to keep him from being completely blind.

He's trying to be stealthy, keeping the lights off so he can't be seen from outside, but it was never a strong point for him. Dean has always walked with lumbering steps, too tall and too broad to be anything other than a typical klutz, but he's making a genuine effort to keep himself hidden from view anyway. He wants to watch Cas make his way down the street with one of his good morning notes for Dean's mailbox, and if he can work up the bravery to do so, he might go outside and give him a good morning note of his own.

Dean is slowly learning that he's too impatient for this sentimental crap. He nearly burns his tongue, the drumming of his bouncing leg against the cupboard is annoying and he's already given names to each of the four flecks of coffee grounds floating around on the top of his coffee. On the upside, he hasn't been awake this early since...well, since pretty much forever, and he can't remember the last time he saw the sunrise.

One of the flecks, Pilgrim, sinks to the bottom of his cup.

He brings his coffee over to the dining table, sets it down and then carefully pushes open the curtains in front of the larger window, which overlooks the front yard and mailbox. He sits in the chair facing the window and admires the slightly more interesting view. At least this way, he can see his Baby and the other, busier street his house corners. Maybe now he won't die from boredom.

Dean isn't completely bored, though, to say so would be a lie. If anything, he's too excited to simply be patient and let the minutes pass, nervous with anticipation at the thought of seeing Cas again so soon after last night. He wants to run out and greet Cas too, maybe even steal a chaste kiss on his cheek before he leaves, but that might complicate the unspoken rules of their note-leaving ritual. Cas isn't around when Dean drops his off in the late evenings, and Dean isn't awake when Cas brings his over in the mornings. Part of the whole point of leaving notes is the surprise, and he doesn't want ruin it for the both of them.

Which is ironic, Dean thinks, considering how hard he tried to nip this thing in the bud. He wanted so badly to derail this train before it left the station, but now he's on a one-way track to unfamiliar territory and he couldn't be happier about it.

Well, yes, he could. Dean would be a hell of a lot happier if Sammy were here, or if he didn't have to carefully avoid the second bedroom to keep from slipping back into that dark mind space.

If Sam hadn't of left, he could be sitting with Dean right now, teasing him about the way he's practically shaking or mock him for naming the flecks in his coffee after Vonnegut characters. He wonders how Sam would feel about the way Dean blushes whenever Cas is around, if he'd make Cas promise not to hurt his older brother, if they'd grow close too and become good friends.

Dean wants those things, even if he won't admit them out loud. There's nothing he can do about John anymore, not that he wants to think about that too hard, but maybe there's something he can do about Sam. Maybe it's not too late after all.

It would be worth it, wouldn't it? Dean is finally letting himself be happy, despite the underlying pain and fear that precedes everything else, he's trying. Yeah, he'd been happy with Lisa, but after last night with Cas he can't help but wonder how much of that happiness with her only exists in retrospect. The way he felt about Lisa never came close to the perfection he feels with Cas, and he and Cas aren't even _there_ yet.

It doesn't matter anymore, though. The beautiful blue-eyed man that's somehow wormed his way beneath Dean's skin makes those unpleasant memories dull and muted.

Last night was one of the greatest nights of his life, as cliché as that sentiment sounds. The real kicker is that they didn't even _do_ anything, they didn't kiss or make out or do any of the fantasies that played out in his head a million times. They watched a scary-as-fuck movie, cuddled on the couch with popcorn, sodas and one hell of a convincing surround sound theater system. Dean isn't easy to scare, but it was strangely endearing to see Cas jump at every single noise, holding a hand over his heart as if it would help slow it down.

If they had been more than what they are, if they were closer and not so new, Dean would have readily volunteered to stay the night with Cas and keep him safe. He would have held him and protected him from every eerie groan of the floorboards, from the wind in the trees and the shadows playing on the wall. He would have been the knight in shining armor, for once.

It hurts to think about, but Dean wonders anyway what his father would have said about his sexuality. There's no point in worrying about it, just like the mess with Lisa, but a meager part of him likes to think that his dad would have liked Cas, too. John hated Lisa; he treated her like a poisonous succubus, constantly at each other's throats and hungry for blood. They spit insults like venom and never cared if Dean was caught in the crossfire.

Cas is different, and Dean isn't the only one who's noticed. Everyone else can sense it, too. There aren't many people left in Dean's life, but those who are already consider Cas to be a part of their close-knit group. Everyone except Charlie, maybe. She still hasn't returned his calls or texts, and he doesn't want to push it anymore. She knows he's ready to apologize, so she'll come around when she's ready to hear it.

Light peeks out over the broad Kansas horizon, bathing the clouds in royal blues and tequila golds until the sharp rays are flickering out over the trees, glimmering against the snow. Just as Dean is distracted by the glinting sparks of sun on the chrome of his Baby, a dark head of hair comes in to view from the window. Cas walks past the first portion of the yard, looking up at the sky and then toward the house, stopping at the mailbox.

Dean smiles, his heel tapping against the floor at a quicker pace. He hates not being able to run outside, but he knows it's better if he stays in his seat. If Cas had decided to approach Dean while he dropped off a note, he knows he'd be embarrassed. It's one thing to write a note to someone, and another to have that person read the note right in front of you. It's all so junior high, but he likes it way too much to care.

Cas is standing at the mailbox with his arms crossed over his chest, looking around a little nervously. He didn't put anything in the mailbox, nor does he look like he's going to. He just stands there, occasionally biting his lip, then looks toward the window where Dean is sitting. He's pretty sure Cas can't see him, but it doesn't hurt to move just in case.

He rises slowly from his chair, making a mental note about how silly it is to hide just so he can sneak out after Cas leaves, but then Cas reaches into his pocket and pulls out a cellphone. He's dialing numbers from memory, then Ramble On echoes from beside the coffee pot. This is definitely something new.

Dean grabs his phone, and sure enough it's Cas calling him. He's about to answer, but changes his mind at the last moment. Instead, he slips his sneakers on over his bare feet and puts a jacket on, looking one last time out the window before heading out the front door.

Cas sees him and smiles, dropping the phone from his ear and disconnecting the call. He's wearing loose pajama pants and his trench coat, hair mussed and eyes tired, but he still looks pretty fucking good. He shoves the phone back into his pocket as Dean approaches, then opens his arms to give him a hug.

Dean embraces him readily, wrapping his arms around Cas and resting his head on his shoulder. He's warm and still smells buttery like popcorn, tempting Dean to lick to flavor off his neck, but he keeps himself under control. He tries to shove all the budding fantasies out of his mind so he can enjoy the pure simplicity of the hug and the way their bodies are pressed together.

“Good morning,” Cas says, lifting his head enough so that he can meet Dean's eyes, but doesn't step back.

“Good morning to you too,” he smiles, happy but reluctant to pull his head away from the soft skin of Cas' neck, “Did you sleep okay?”

Cas laughs, still holding his arms around Dean's waist. “Not really. I should know better by now than to watch scary movies before bed.”

The way they're standing with their arms around one another, neither stepping back to regain a personal bubble, practically cuddling, almost feels like they're preparing to slow dance. They're even staring into each other's eyes. All they need now is school-appropriate dance music and they'd fit right in at a junior high social.

Dean fucking loves it.

“Maybe next time you won't have to sleep alone,” Dean suggests, trying to disguise his hopeful request as a flirtatious joke. Cas lifts a single eyebrow and smirks, seeing right through it.

“Speaking of wishful thinking,” Cas says, redirecting the conversation, “I thought I'd bring you two notes today instead of one.”

He steps back just barely, enough to reach into this coat pocket but maintain the embrace, and pulls out a little folded square of paper. He winks at Dean, then opens the mailbox and sets it inside. Dean huffs a lazy laugh, knowing he proved himself right when he was thinking about this earlier. There's something sacred about reading a hand-written note only after the other person isn't around.

When Cas turns back to him, he brings his free hand up to the side of Dean's face instead of back on his hips. “The second one is a kiss, if you don't mind.”

It is overwhelming how concerned and apprehensive Cas is when it comes to touching him, afraid to test the limits of Dean's consent despite his obvious desire to do so. He's always asking for permission before he tries anything, always analyzing Dean's responses like they might not be true. He's never had anyone tread so carefully around him, and it's alarmingly dizzying.

Dean doesn't vocalize a response, choosing instead to bring their lips together for a slow, languid kiss. Cas parts his lips almost immediately, never intending it to be subdued despite Dean's best attempt.

He doesn’t remember what Cas tasted like the first time they kissed, he was too drunk and artless to notice anything more than the velvet of his lips and tongue, but this is different. He doesn’t even know how to qualify it. Dean has never compared kisses before; there was never any need to. He kissed plenty of people solely as a prelude to more, no intention of actually focusing on the kiss itself but what was to follow, and then there was the way he kissed Lisa. She was the first person he had ever loved, had ever kissed with the intention of composing love songs through the way he moved his lips and tongue. Yet somehow, all those lyrics seem incomparable to the way he’s kissing Cas.

It's not a song they’re writing together with their lips, but a symphony.

This kiss is slower and sleepier than their first, but it’s sweet and warm and matches the pace of the sun rising higher in the Kansas skyline. He tastes like salt and butter coating black cherries and silk, a welcome reminder of their date-night fare. Dean’s fingers dip under the hem of Cas’ sweats, feeling the tender flesh and hipbone just beneath. Cas responds by bringing his other hand up to cup Dean’s face, cradling his jaw and moaning. They kiss like that for several minutes, ignoring the urge to feel more of each other until Cas pulls his mouth away, dropping his hands to Dean’s shoulders.

It is, without a doubt, the single greatest kiss of Dean Winchester's life.

A car passes by on the road, and a couple of women lean out their passenger side windows and whistle. Dean blushes with embarrassment, almost forgetting that he's public with Cas now, dropping his gaze to the ground. Cas laughs when Dean steps back and tugs on his jacket, coaxing him to follow.

“Do you have more coffee inside?” Cas asks, letting himself be pulled along by Dean toward the front door.

Dean stops, a bolt of shy confusion sparking down his spine. Had Cas seen him inside, drinking coffee and staring at him through the window? “How did you know I made coffee?”

Cas shrugs, “I could taste it on you. I think you made it a bit strong, though,” he smirks, humored by his own joke. They're through the front door and standing in the entryway, taking off their shoes, a dull but distinct electric current buzzing between them, heating Dean's blood. When Cas strips out of his trench coat, exposing the tight, soft cotton fitted around his torso, Dean can't control himself any longer.

He told himself he wouldn't do this – he didn't want to pressure Cas into anything more than he was ready for, and everything is still so new and tender that he could easily raze the post-kiss bliss they're feeling by asking for more, but Dean can't stop. The way Cas had kissed him back sent a boiling need to his dick for _more_ , to know Cas in every sense of the word. He'll obey if Cas says no, but holy Christ he hopes that doesn't happen.

Cas seems to expect the way Dean pushes him against the wall, pressing their chests together hard enough that he can feel every ridge of muscle against his own. Cas melts beneath the pressure, his lithe and irresistible body pliant and willing as his hands clutch fistfuls of Dean's shirt. He gasps when Dean rolls his hips, grinding their hardening dicks together through the layers of cotton and flannel.

Dean captures Cas' mouth in another kiss; it's only their second one sober, yet already a stark contrast to their first, wet and hungry and so full of _need_ that Dean has to stop to catch his breath. Cas lowers his lips to Dean's jawline, licking and nipping his way down the side of his neck until he's sucking on collarbone, weakening what little bit of resolve Dean had left. His breathing stutters, hands resting flat against the plane of Cas' chest, a rabbit's heartbeat thudding beneath his fingertips.

“Cas,” he pants, pleading for more as the skin beneath Cas' lips tingles, a possessive bruise blooming over the jut of bone below his neck. It feels so good to be claimed, marked like he's important, like he fucking _matters_ to someone, and it nearly drives him over the edge. He lowers his hands to the rounded flesh of Cas' ass, dragging his hands down his body as he does so, then squeezes and lifts, prompting Cas to hold on tight as he's lifted against the wall.

Cas obediently lets himself be raised, brazenly wrapping his legs around Dean's waist and hooking his ankles for balance, gripping Dean's shoulders. Cas' head falls against the wall, tilted back in shameless want, an invitation for Dean to suck his own mark onto his new lover's skin - but Dean is too consumed with the overwhelming need to chase the pleasure he's feeling to slow his pace long enough for that.

With one hand against the wall to steady himself, Dean skillfully grips the fabric of Cas' sweats and pulls, bunching them around his thighs against Dean's chest. Cas' eyes widen, trepidation replacing the desire on his face. “Dean, wait,” he breathes, still red and flushed with the same sense of need that courses through both of them.

“Just this, baby,” he assures, leaving Cas' briefs in place. He just needed that extra, unnecessary layer out of the way, to feel as much of him as he possibly can without pushing too far. With the same deft fingers, he jerks his sweats down too, leaving his boxers on, now only two thin layers of cotton between them. Cas nods, closing his eyes and tightening the grip of his legs around Dean's waist.

Dean rolls his hips and rocks forward up into Cas, panting and sighing at the feel of their bodies working together in a steady rhythm that's already building a ball of _too much too good_ in his gut. Cas is completely gone, lost in the pleasure, letting himself be manhandled as he whines lustfully with every thrust.

They rut against each other, quickening their pace as they climb closer to the edge, their voices competing in a litany of yes, right there, don't stop. Cas comes first with a gasp, his whole body going stiff and rigid before melting into a pool against Dean's chest. He can feel the slick wetness of Cas' briefs dampening his boxers, the friction of his cock against the soaked fabric pushing him to the edge, and then he's _there_ , spilling over and shaking with the sheer force of it.

Dean's legs are ready to give out and fold underneath him, so with the last bit of strength he has, he lowers himself and Cas to the ground, gently, as Cas whispers praises and sweet nothings into Dean's ear.

They're puddled on the floor, panting to catch their breath, Cas wiping the beads of sweat from Dean's forehead with his thumb. Dean smiles, pulling Cas in closer. He's always been so useless after an orgasm, limp and tired and ready to crash, but he doesn't feel that way right now. He's tired, yes, but blissfully so, the thought of some excellent post-rutting cuddles keeping him alert.

The come is sticky and cooling in his boxers, itching against his sensitive skin. He's going to need a shower after this, and definitely some better coffee.

“You're beautiful when you let yourself go,” Cas says, his voice deep and tired like Dean feels. He cringes at the compliment, unsure of how he feels to be called something so feminine and florid. “So beautiful,” Cas continues, running the pad of his thumb over the bow of Dean's lips. He huffs, relenting. Dean doesn't mind the word so much as long as it comes from Cas.

“Sorry,” he says, sincere and heartfelt, afraid now that he forced himself on Cas too soon.

“For what?” he asks, pulling his hand away from Dean's mouth to rest on his chest.

“I didn't give you a lot of choice there,” he explains, “I hope that was okay.”

Cas gives a shaky laugh, too tired and winded for anything more. “I've been wanting to do that since the second time I saw you. You were so upset about the coffee and your shirt, but all I could think about was bending you over the hood of my car. It was more than okay, I promise.”

“The second?” Dean blurts, then regrets it. He can't believe he forgot about the first time they actually saw each other, the painfully awkward and embarrassing moment that felt too much like a horrific metaphor for Dean's life.

Cas' expression changes slightly, from languid bliss to something more like concern. He must sense Dean's regret, because he answers softly, “The first time I saw you, I was afraid. Initially, it was because I thought you needed help and I didn't know what to do. But then you looked at me, and I was so attracted to you that it freaked me out.”

Dean grunts in agreement, “Yeah, sounds familiar.”

The floor is cold against their flushed, sensitive skin, but neither of them seem to care. Their legs entwine as they lay together, Cas' head rests on Dean's shoulder and their arms are still wrapped around each other. It feels so domestic, so much more intimate than holding Cas against the wall and rutting into him, and it hurts. The layer of fear, pain and guilt that he'd hidden beneath the happiness is starting to surface.

Laying like this with Cas shouldn't hurt as much as it does, or at all, really, but his surroundings start to sink in and burrow into his chest. This house has probably never witnessed such reckless or enthusiastic behavior, accustomed instead to the stench of whiskey that's so thick it seeps from the walls. Dean's heart won't slow, won't calm down no matter what he tries to focus on and breathe. The dirt over his father's grave hasn't even settled yet but Dean is moving on with his life like his family never mattered.

Even now, in the small entryway of Dean's home, they're laying on top of a pile of old memories. Sam running in with an A+ paper, Lisa lingering in the doorway, John fixing up the floorboards – there's so much surrounding them that Cas can't see, can't realize. Dean tries to shut it all out, to focus solely on the man in his arms, to let the heat of Cas' body warm him and block out the slight draft crawling in under the door.

Cas must have some kind of special sixth sense, some strange ability to see right through Dean's attempts and into the heart of the problem because he always seems to know when something is wrong before Dean even understands it himself. Cas plants a gentle kiss on Dean's forehead and says, “It'll be okay.”

Dean doesn't think it will be. He doesn't want to get his hopes up just so they can come crashing back down. He loves that they can hold each other like this, like it's the most natural thing in the world, but he doesn't deserve it. Dean's body is cooling down, and he can feel the chill creeping over him and the come drying in his boxers, gluing him to the fabric, but it's still nicer than anything else. He'd rather lay here on the floor with Cas than get up.

“I mean it,” Cas says, adjusting his legs where they're tangled with Dean's, “I'm here for you.”

Yeah, Dean knows. He just doesn't deserve that, either.

In a moment of weakness, Dean doesn't feel so secretive or protective of his issues, like he could talk to Cas about things he wouldn't dare say to anyone else. He doesn't like the idea of talking about it all, but maybe if Cas knew the things that Dean has been through, he'd understand. If he knew about all the ways Dean has fucked up, failed his family, hurt himself, it might give Cas a better picture of what he's getting into.

“I know,” Dean says, and it's true. He hasn't known Cas very long, but Cas has proven himself to be honest and reliable. It's more than Dean can say about himself. “I just...I can't stop thinking about it, you know? Everything they said to me, I can't get it out of my head.”

Cas nods, planting another kiss on Dean, this one on his chest. He's not sure if Cas actually knows what he talking about, but he doesn't ask Dean to clarify or go into detail. Cas looks like he understands, deep in thought, when he finally says, “Dean, do you think I'm a worthless faggot?”

Dean nearly chokes on his own tongue. How could Cas even say that? “What? No!”

“That was the last thing my mother said to me before she sent me here, and she hasn't talked to me since. People say cruel things all the time, but just because they mean it doesn't make it true,” Cas says, detaching himself from Dean's grip and sitting up. “You're so lovely, but you don't see it.”

Dean's heart flutters in his chest, skipping like a game of hopscotch up into his throat until he feels like he's gagging on it. He's torn between kissing Cas again or running very far away at top speed, but he calms down when Cas runs his fingers through Dean's hair. He takes a deep breath, getting his heart back under control. John may have said a lot of painful things over the years, but at least Dean was never outright called _worthless_.

Cas is pretty much the farthest thing from worthless Dean can imagine, except maybe pie or the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders.

“We need to get cleaned up,” Dean says, moving the conversation forward on to less unpleasant things. Cas smiles and helps Dean to his feet, lacing their fingers together once he's upright. It's another sweet little thing that Dean isn't used to, all the touching and caressing like he's a thing to be cherished. Dean doesn't know who that Baz guy is, but he must have been one hell of a dumbass. “Go take a shower. I'll make a new pot of coffee and some breakfast, then shower afterward,” he offers.

Cas smiles and steals another kiss, “French toast?” Dean nods and smiles, the sickening fear and sadness sinking back down, shrinking away. 

 * * * * *

The shower water is running, muted through the walls but still audible where Dean is standing in the kitchen, brewing a fresh pot of coffee. He'd forgotten too quickly what it was like to have someone else inside the house, the soothing noises of a second pair of feet padding across the carpet, the dull hum of routine and movement from someone other than himself makes Dean feel more comfortable in his own skin.

Like everyone, Dean needs and values the quiet times, but quiet to him meant something different. He'd never been completely alone, had never gone without a second pair of lungs sharing the same stale motel air whirring out of a noisy, ancient heater. If there is a Hell, then Dean's pretty sure that silence would line the walls of his personal prison.

It's been a while since Dean's had a cigarette, so he decides to have one before he starts cooking breakfast. He has no idea how long Cas showers for, whether he's one of those guys that's in and out in five minutes or the type that can spend nearly an hour just soaking under the spray, but Dean figures he has enough time. Cas won't mind anyway, he knows Dean smokes and hasn't said anything about it yet.

Dean wipes himself down with a wet dish rag and changes into a clean pair of sweat pants, still too early in the day for jeans, then puts on his shoes and coat. He has to rummage through the kitchen drawers a few times to find his cigarettes, only half a pack left, and heads outside.

He sits in the porch swing that Bobby built when they first moved in, still sturdy and swinging just fine six years later, then sticks the butt of a cigarette in his mouth and lights it. It's been a while since he's enjoyed a post-orgasm smoke, so he decides to take his time with it. Actually, it's been a while since he's even sat on the porch swing, since he's done anything he used to do with frequency and it makes him realize what Bobby had meant.

Dean is broken, but not necessarily irreparable.

There are a lot of pieces of Dean that need to be picked up and put back together, but he knows it won't do any good without the biggest piece of him all the way in California. Having Cas around has helped, but it's still not enough to fill in all the cracks and crevices of his shattered heart, not yet. He needs to find Sam, even if it means driving all the way to Stanford and walking around the campus until he finds him.

Huh. That's not a bad idea.

Jody couldn't find any updated information on Sam, other than him being a student and living in the dorms there. The phone numbers for the dorms are unlisted, and he kept his Kansas driver's license instead of getting a new one. He's sure they could find out more information if they really dug around, but that idea makes Dean uncomfortable. He's not into spying or snooping around, not when he can just go directly to the source and look around himself.

It's settled, then. He's going to talk to Ellen and ask for some time off to drive to California. Dean could use a break from Lawrence, anyway. A little distance between him and his parents' graves would do him some good.

He's halfway through his cigarette when a little blue car, Charlie's, pulls into the driveway. He takes a deep drag as she steps out and looks his way, a tentative smile on her face.

“Is there room for me on the swing?” Charlie asks, walking up the steps toward Dean. He pats the space beside him, holding the cigarette between his lips, then rests one arm across the back of the swing behind Charlie when she sits. “I miss you.”

“I miss you too,” Dean admits, using his toes to rock the swing gently back and forth.

“You know why I'm mad, right?” She says, leaning against Dean and resting her head on his arm, patting his leg. It's such a natural thing for them to do, and he really did miss it so much. Sometimes it makes him feel like an infant, the way he constantly needs physical reminders of his existence.

“Yeah, I know. I fucked up,” he takes a quick puff this time, self conscious about his smoking around Charlie, “I'm sorry.”

“Good.” It's all that really needs to be said for the both of them to feel better. They speak each other's language, always have. “I heard you kicked Benny's ass. I'm glad one of us finally did.”

Dean laughs, dropping his arm lower to rest over her shoulders. “I didn't really kick his ass, I'm pretty sure it was just a punch to the face or something. Ellen's the one who pointed a shotgun at his crotch.”

“Ellen is pretty fucking scary,” she agrees.

It's quiet then for a few minutes, but _Dean's_ kind of quiet. The swing rocks and groans, Charlie's shoes drag along the porch and her breathing is steady and audible. Cars pass along the road, and a neighbor's cat purrs and meows while rubbing itself against a fence. Dean's head has been such a noisy, volatile place lately that he couldn't even hear these simple, familiar sounds, but now he soaks the noises in with eyes closed.

“I'm driving to California soon. I need to find Sam, let him know what happened.”

Charlie sits up, surprised. “Wow, yeah. I think you should.”

To be honest, Dean wasn't expecting anyone to support his plan, but Jo had practically congratulated him and now Charlie is encouraging him too. Hopefully Ellen feels the same way so he can get at least a week off, if not more.

“I came here so you could take me out to breakfast as a proper apology, but now I'm thinking I would rather shoot some zombies with you. I got this new game, you'll love it, it's got zombies and Nazis and takes place in an abandoned military hospital -”

“Pac-Man Fever,” they hear behind them, Cas joining them outside and leaning against the banister, “It's especially fun on level Expert.”

Charlie and Cas eye each other warily, sizing each other up as if preparing for a Battle Royale. Dean rolls his eyes and takes another drag from his cigarette.

“Care to wager on your skills? Winner gets Dean tonight...all night, overnight, whatever,” Charlie challenges, a sly smile creeping over her face. Cas smirks.

“Hey! I'm not a prize,” Dean interrupts, disliking the way they're talking about him as if he's not there, as if he's some kind of thing to be won.

“Oh yes, you are,” Cas counters, “And I plan on winning you fair and square with my superior zombie shooting skills.”

“In your fucking dreams, asshole,” Charlie says, laughing. Both her and Cas are smiling, challenging each other, but Dean can't tell how serious or fueled they are about it. Is this them getting along, or are they really about to fight each other? Friendship, or blood lust?

It's a little scary that he can't tell.

Charlie rises from the swing and hooks an arm around Cas, dragging him inside. “You're on, buddy,” she says, pulling the game out of her purse, “I hope you won't mind being alone tonight, because I have some interesting plans with Dean.”

“Funny, I was about to say the same thing,” Cas intones, winking at Dean as they both go inside.

“Hey!” Dean complains, snuffing the cigarette out in the ashtray, trying to catch up. Charlie stops, turning on her heels and faces Dean, her eyes bright.

“Dean, make yourself useful and cook some breakfast. We warriors need our fuel if we're going to be fighting for your hand,” she says, then turns back, an arm still around Cas. Dean watches as they both go into the living room, setting up the game and each taking a controller.

He's not sure, but he thinks that means they've forgiven each other. The last time Dean saw them together, they weren't exactly on good terms.

Dean could get used to this, too. 

 * * * * *

Four hours and two helpings of French toast later, Charlie and Cas are still fighting it out, too evenly matched.

It had been a consistent tie from the beginning, yet neither of them have lost their patience or sense of wit, biting out insults and comebacks faster than they could shoot the onslaught of zombies attacking them.

Dean just watched, enjoying the sight of his favorite people trying to kill more pixels than the other, teasing each other with what their plans for Dean are and who will get to follow through on them. He doesn't even care who wins at this point, happy to have the promise of an evening with either of them, though Cas' plans sounded far sexier than Charlie's.

He's so full of french toast that it hurts to move, so he's sprawled out on the floor next to the couch where Cas and Charlie are heroically slaying Nazi zombies in Dean's name. He's not going to say it out loud, but it feels pretty fucking nice to have two people want him at the same time.

It gives him high hopes that Sam might want him back in his life, too.

“YES!” Charlie screams, jumping up from the couch and throwing the controller down, dancing her patented touch-down dance. Cas laughs, conceding with his hands raised, a white flag. “Suck on it, Novak!”

“Okay, okay, you win,” Cas says, “you are clearly superior, I should have never doubted your skills.”

Charlie extends her hand to Cas, and they shake like civil diplomats. “I guess you'll just have to get your sweet gay lovin' on another night,” she teases.

“I'll be sure to brush up on my skills, miss Bradbury,” Cas promises, standing up from the couch. Dean gets up with Cas' help, groaning at having to say goodbye to Cas but excited about getting to spend some time with Charlie.

“Walk me outside, Dean?” Cas asks, pulling Dean into a hug. He nods, soaking up as much heat from the hug as he possibly can, then wonders if it's possible to make out with someone while simultaneously walking them out the door.

“Be right back, Charlie,” Dean says, releasing Cas but taking his hand instead, lacing their fingers together. Charlie winks, shoving another forkful of cold, syrupy french toast in her mouth.

Once they're outside, Cas looks behind them at the door to make sure it's closed. He's smiling that brilliant smile of his, despite having lost against Charlie. As happy as Dean is to spend some time with Charlie, he also wishes Cas had won. Sweet gay lovin' would have been pretty fun, after all.

“I let Charlie win,” Cas confesses, chuckling, “I know you two haven't been on speaking terms, so I wanted you guys to have some time together.”

“Sure,” Dean says, disbelieving, “That's what everyone says when they lose against Charlie. She's practically unbeatable. I am impressed you lasted as long as you did, though.”

“Fine,” Cas smiles, “you caught me. She is surprisingly murderous for such a small woman.”

They walk toward Cas' house in silence, holding hands, the snow crunching beneath their feet. It's starting to melt under the heat of the sun, slushy and brown. Cas does seem to be happy though, despite losing against Charlie, the smile never leaving his face. They arrive at Cas' in just a few minutes, both of them reluctant to say goodbye.

Dean rubs his thumb across Cas' fingers where their hands are entwined, admiring the softness and warmth, not wanting to let go. Last night and this morning were so wonderful that it scares him, but that fear is starting to take a new shape. It's not the type of fear that sprouts from anger or sadness, but the excited kind that blossoms in the wake of _want_. He wants Cas, he wants these mornings with Cas and Charlie playing video games, with coffee flavored kisses, porch swings and notes in his mailbox.

He wants it all, with Cas, forever.

It's way too early for him to have these kinds of feelings, so needy and intense, so he'll have to keep them to himself for a while, if for no other reason than to protect himself. It's lust, he thinks, lust with the overwhelming potential of becoming something more.

Dean doesn't mean to, especially when he knows he needs to keep those thoughts to himself, but he thinks he ends up saying those exact words through the kiss he gives Cas in front of his house.

He leans in, their hands still holding on tight and reassuring, and presses his lips against Cas. It's patient and controlled, languid and loving, as Dean's other hand finds Cas' and tangles together. He's never kissed someone while holding both their hands in his, neither fighting for control over the way their mouths waltz together to unheard music. It's sweet and syrupy, the cinnamon and sugar from the french toast mixing together again on their tongues.

Dean doesn't want it to stop, but eventually he does pull away, loosening his grip on Cas' hands. He wouldn't be surprised if his hands were clammy and sweaty despite the winter air, but Cas isn't complaining. Cas actually looks surprised, affected by the kiss as much as Dean. They both heard the unspoken promises made by their lips and it's left them both speechless.

“Thank you,” Dean eventually says, letting Cas' hands go. “This has been the most fun I've had in years.”

“Any time, Dean,” Cas says, then, “I'll wash these clothes and get them back to you.”

“No, keep them,” Dean offers, “you look good in my clothes. Pink Floyd suits you well.” _Because it reminds me you_ , he thinks, looking at the prism on the shirt, _the way you take a little light and magnify it into something more_.

Cas beams, saying nothing else, then heads inside his house.

Dean is sad to see him go, but he knows he'll meet up with Cas again soon. He really does need this time with Charlie, to repair whatever parts of their friendship he clumsily broke when he was being selfish and poisonous. Plus, the game they were playing did look pretty intense, and he wouldn't mind spending the day killing a bunch of zombies.

He's pretty sure there's a metaphor in there somewhere, but he doesn't care enough to figure it out.

The walk back goes by quickly when he's not holding hands with someone else, which is a little sad but also convenient. As he approaches his house, he can see Charlie watching him from the window, a cup of coffee in her hand, smiling and waving at him.

Dean stops at the mailbox and plucks the note off the cold metal, excited that he can read it now that Cas is gone.

He takes the note inside, too cold to stay outside any longer. Charlie skips over to him, hands him a pack of unopened cigarettes she brought and says, “Truce?”

“Truce,” Dean agrees, snatching the pack from her hands with too much enthusiasm. She laughs at that, then sees the note in his hand.

“What's it say?”

“Haven't read it yet,” he replies, then debates on whether or not he should be reading it in front of Charlie. He has no idea what it says, or what it _could_ say, but then again it's not like Charlie is a prude or easily offended. Plus, she just gave him a pack of cigarettes and kicked Cas' ass on Pac-Man Fever. She's earned it.

Dean unfolds the square of paper carefully.

_**Dean,** _

_**Thank you for bravely protecting me against my imagination. I shouldn't be allowed to watch movies like that anymore, or I'll never have any children for fear of them coming after me with an axe. The writers that come up with that stuff must be on high quality, hallucinogenic drugs.** _

_**Next time, you should stay and keep me safe through the night.** _

_**Happy Valentine's Day.** _

_**\--C.N.** _


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have family visiting this week, so the next chapter might be slightly delayed. I also just want to say a quick thank you to everyone reading this and to all the subscribers. I hope this and future chapters live up to expectations.

“I don't want you going alone,” Ellen states, straight faced and serious. She's leaning against the bar, tall and statuesque with her head held high, a queen bee. Dean has always been a little afraid of her, the way she commands authority and owns it like her God-given right, but now she's just being scary on purpose. Her body language demands obedience, and Dean submits.

It's surprisingly not emasculating in the slightest to bow down to Ellen, mostly because everyone else does too, even the guys. Jo is an even split between her parents, half monarch and half adventurer, her sense of rebellion heightened and honed in honor of her late father, so when she stands beside her mother and agrees, it's even scarier and harder to say no.

The Harvelle girls stare into Dean with unparalleled intensity, their arms crossed with mirrored expressions until he squeaks, “Uh, okay. Whatever you say.”

“I ain't goin',” Bobby grumbles, adjusting the brim of his hat and clearing his throat.

Dean's not entirely sure how it happened, but somehow he ended up in the middle of the Roadhouse surrounded by practically _everyone_ , like a town hall meeting where they're all giving their input and ideas and concerns about the matter at hand. This accidental gathering does – kinda – concern everyone present, but he wasn't expecting to be told what to do instead of doing the talking.

He talked to Ellen about leaving for California, and she refused to give him the time off until she called the rest of their mix-n-match family, making Dean the subject of discussion once again between Ellen, Jo, Bobby, Jody, Charlie, and somehow Cas.

Originally, Dean had planned on driving by himself, with the intent of getting to Stanford in under two days. Then, he'd spend a day looking around until he found Sam, deliver the news, hopefully exchange updated contact information, and then drive back home.

According to Google Maps, it would take 26 hours to get from Lawrence to Stanford, but that's assuming Dean follows the speed limits and takes occasional breaks. Google doesn't know that Dean grew up on the road, or what his Baby is capable of, but he's fairly confident he could make the trip in under 20 hours. Might even make it in one day.

Ellen and her minions have a different opinion on that, though. He can't take less than two days to drive there, he has to take off more than five days, and now he can't make the trip alone.

“Why can't I go alone, exactly?” Dean braves, not making direct eye contact with either Ellen or Jo. He grips a bottle cap in his hands, and looks at the indents it leaves on his flesh instead.

“Someone's gotta keep you in line, and _safe_ ,” Ellen says, raising her voice, “you're not exactly known for your life-preserving habits, Dean.”

“And someone's gotta make sure you come back,” Jody interjects.

Bobby gives her a sideways glance, then raises his eyebrow with a heavy sigh. Ellen and Jo do almost the same thing, giving Jody and then each other a weird, uncomfortable stare before shifting their weight. Even Charlie looks surprised by Jody's statement, but Dean isn't sure if it's because she's offended on his behalf or if she's worried about the exact same thing.

Not that Dean can really blame any of them for thinking it. The Winchester boys practically have the corner market on running and not looking back.

Jody's face reddens slightly with embarrassment under the weight of everyone's stare, and Dean feels guilty for it. It's not her fault for saying what everyone was thinking.

“You're right, I shouldn't be going alone, anyway. Safety in numbers and all that jazz,” Dean says, relieving the tension in the room and pulling the heat away from Jody.

Charlie, who was slouching and sipping on a glass of soda through a straw, bolts upright and smiles. “Hey, you should take Cas!”

There's a moment of awkward silence – well, awkward for Dean, anyway – while everyone looks around at each other, nodding their heads in agreement. Cas is silent beside him, not giving his thoughts away or conceding any hint of how he feels about that idea, and it makes Dean feel extremely self-conscious. Just thinking about all that alone time with Cas on the road, inside his Baby and staying at motels, excites him to the point of needing to recite the national anthem in his head to avoid further embarrassment.

The problem, though, is that he and Cas are still wading around in the shallow waters. They haven't gone into the deep end yet, not even close, despite it feeling like they've both jumped off the high dives head first, and he's not sure if being completely alone with him this soon is a good idea.

Not that his worries hold much ground at this particular meeting, because everyone has already agreed that it's the best idea so far.

Except for Cas, who is still sitting beside him with no readable expression on his face. Charlie turns to him, leaning over the table. “Well? Are you going with Dean?”

Cas lifts his head slightly, his lower lip caught between his teeth as the first sign of his apprehension. He looks at Dean with pleading eyes, but Dean can't tell what Cas is pleading for. Does he need an excuse not to go? Is he afraid of hurting Dean's feelings? Does he feel as cornered and pressured as Dean does?

“If you'd like me to go, I'll go,” Cas finally says, his voice small and breathy. Dean doesn't know what to say.

“Come on, Dean, the guy doesn't have anything to do until the fall, and he's rich! I bet he'd hook you up with some fancy hotel rooms,” Jo adds, wagging her eyebrows like a pervert for everyone to see. Dean must be the only person here with any sense of privacy because everyone else starts giggling like school children.

Dean glares at Jo, pissed at the way she seems to have no shame over talking about Cas' money and job situation, but then continues to glare out of frustration that she must know more about Cas than he does, because he had no idea Cas was wealthy.

There's a difference between inheriting a rare car and being rich, or at least that's what Dean thought until now. He knew Cas came from a larger, affluent family, but as far as Dean knew, Cas had been kicked out and that meant cut off from the family funds.

Cas isn't denying it. He's actually giggling along with the rest of them. Dammit.

“Shuddup,” Dean says to no one in particular, hoping they'll all shut their mouths and stop laughing at the lame way Jo hinted at sex. It wasn't even funny.

“It's a good idea, Dean, stop fussin' about it. You deserve a break more than anyone here, Sam needs to know about John, and Cas will make good company. That's our offer, take it or leave it,” Bobby huffs, not giving Dean any wiggle room to make compromises. He's been backed into a corner by everyone that cares about him and they're insisting on his comfort and happiness.

It's kind of a weird feeling that he doesn't know how to deal with.

“Fine,” Dean says, getting up and leaving his empty beer bottle on the table. He holds a hand out for Cas without saying anything, helping him out of the booth and onto his feet. No one tries to stop him as he leaves, thank Christ, because he's had enough with being told what to do and basically peer pressured into taking a trip with Cas.

Which sucks, because he really would enjoy a road trip with Cas. He doubts he could think of anything more perfect than that, him and Cas together on the highway sharing snacks and a drink, listening to music and stealing kisses at stop lights. He wants Cas to want it, too, not feel forced into it by Dean's unconventional family.

Outside, Dean is a few paces ahead of Cas, walking toward his Baby as he pulls a cigarette and lighter out of his pocket.

“Dean,” Cas says, trying to catch up, reaching out for Dean's free arm. “I won't go with you unless you want me to. I don't want you to feel obliged to take me.”

For as smart as Cas is, sometimes he can be pretty stupid. Of course Dean wants him to go.

“I don't feel obliged, Cas. I just –” Dean stops himself from making an unnecessary confession, slightly changing the subject. “What did Jo mean about you being rich?”

Cas steps to Dean's right side, leaning against the Impala out of the way of the cigarette smoke. He shrugs his shoulders with an indifferent look on his face. “I'm not a self made man or anything. When my family sent me here, they decided to set me up with...” he pauses, searching his mind for the right word, “...an allowance, I suppose. Before, I had unlimited access to the family funds, but now I'm given monthly payments instead. They see it as a punishment, but I was never much a spender. I still have more than I need.”

Dean takes a drag from his cigarette. “I don't want to sound like an ass for asking, but how much are they paying you?”

Cas shifts inelegantly, biting the inside of his cheek. “I don't want you to think less of me.”

Well, _now_ he's just plain worried.

He doesn't know exactly how rich Cas' family is, but if it's so much that Cas is ashamed to tell Dean about it, maybe he doesn't want to know. Before he can back-track and tell Cas not to worry about it, he answers.

“They give me about ten thousand dollars a month, and I give one thousand of it back to the church. I might not be allowed back there, but they still expect me to tithe,” he says, quietly and reluctantly. Now Cas is the one avoiding eye contact, looking like he's about to be rejected and sent home.

Dean doesn't know what to say. On one hand, he feels like an asshole for making Cas believe he would think less of him just for being born into a certain family, which would be painfully ironic considering Dean's family tree, but on the other hand Jo really wasn't kidding about Cas being rich.

He knew Cas wasn't middle class, though. He could tell by the way Cas carried himself in and out of the garage, the way he dressed and talked and their brief conversations about Cas' history. Dean knew all this, and yet he's still surprised. Dumbfounded might be the better word to describe it, since he's still just standing there with a cigarette between his lips, unsure of what to say.

It takes Dean six months and two jobs to make the kind of money Cas gets handed to him once a month for free.

Cas takes a deep breath, still looking at the ground. “I know how much you value hard work, Dean. I don't want you to think of me as...I don't know, I'm sorry.”

“Whoa, Cas, slow down for a minute, alright?” Dean assures, stepping closer to Cas and holding his cigarette away so he won't have to breathe it in. Cas looks at him like he can't believe Dean is still there, which is really confusing. Dean's the one who is supposed to be desperately clinging to Cas' ankles, not the other way around.

“You're not mad?” Cas checks, his voice still ringing with uncertainty.

“No, I'm not mad,” Dean says, turning his head away from Cas so he can take another drag, “I just don't understand why you're with me, sometimes. Seems like every day I find another way you outshine me. Hard to keep up with you, Cas.”

At that, Cas laughs. His whole body relaxes as he lets himself fall toward Dean, resting his head on his shoulder. “It's all about perspective, isn't it? I often feel that you are too far out of my league, and I wonder what you could possibly see in me.”

“You're kidding,” Dean says, unable to comprehend how Cas could ever feel like he doesn't deserve Dean. That's like the Sun wondering why it deserves the planets. “No, scratch that. Just don't worry about it.”

“If you insist.” Cas tilts his head upward and plants a kiss on Dean's neck, smiling. “Besides, now that I have you, I actually have a reason to spend some of that money.”

“Uh...” Dean stalls, trying to form a complete sentence in his head before Cas gets carried away, “I'm not a kept man, okay? You don't have to spend money on me or anything.”

Cas rolls his eyes, no longer worried about Dean's reaction to his slightly ridiculous wealth. His head is still on Dean's shoulder, warm and heavy, then one of Cas' hands lands flat on Dean's stomach, fingers splayed in a caress over the twill fabric of his sweater. Dean responds with a light kiss on the top of Cas' head, the dark crop of hair silky against his lips.

“I'll decide how I spend the money, Dean. If I want to spoil you, I hope you'll allow me to do so.”

Dean doesn't like the idea of money being spent on him, especially when it comes to gifts or other unnecessary things, but Cas has a point. He can't tell Cas how to spend his money any more than Cas can tell him how to spend his.

Not that he's making very much money these days, anyway. He only has his part time job and somehow that's supposed to cover all his bills. Dean has a little money in savings, a few thousand dollars he'd been putting away slowly over the last few years in case of an emergency, but that's what he'll be spending on this trip and most of it will be gone by the time he gets back.

He's okay with it, too. Dean needs to find Sammy and if this doesn't qualify as an emergency, then nothing does.

Charlie approaches them with her hands in her pockets and a smile on her face. She's practically beaming at the way Dean and Cas are standing together by the car, but Dean doesn't care. He's getting used to people seeing him with a guy, even if he's not big on public displays of affection.

“Ellen and Jo want to throw a going-away party for you guys before you leave. They're in there planning it right now,” Charlie says, fanning the smoke away from her face. It makes Dean feel bad enough that he drops his cigarette into the snow, only half smoked, and kills the glow beneath his shoe.

“It wasn't supposed to be a surprise, was it?” Cas says, lifting his head from Dean's shoulder to look at Charlie.

“Nope. They told me to come out here and subtly ask what kind of alcohol you like, Cas. You only ever drink soda when you're at the bar.”

“I don't drink,” Cas says, politely declining with a shrug of his shoulders. Charlie groans and Dean nearly gasps in surprise.

Cas doesn't drink...at all? He doesn't smoke either, doesn't use slang or listen to rock music or put gel in his hair. He doesn't cuss, cry, complain, or mope. Add that to his sheltered, religious upbringing and you have the complete opposite of Dean Winchester in a trench coat. Dean is starting to think the only thing they have in common is liking dudes.

“Come on, Cas, if I go back in there and tell them that, they'll just make me ask you again, or worse. They might pick out something really awful for you to drink because there's no way they're letting you leave state without alcohol in your system,” Charlie explains, kicking the snow around with her shoe and pouting.

“I don't understand. They want us to drink before we go on a road trip? That doesn't sound very responsible,” Cas says, avoiding the question.

Charlie gives Dean one of those looks that means he has to explain to Cas why they have to drink before they leave, but he doesn't really want to. He hates talking about John and this wouldn't be an exception. Charlie intensifies her stare, lifting her eyebrows for emphasis. She might not be as scary as Ellen, but he'd rather be the one to explain anyway. Charlie might go into too much detail and get all _emotional_ about it.

“It's tradition,” Dean finally says, shoving his hands in his pockets and looking down at his shoes. “We don't get drunk or anything, we just have a drink and clink glasses and let everyone wish us good luck.”

“Dean's dad used to come through here all the time. He'd stop at the bar and Ellen would pour him a shot and wish him luck on their next trip. Sam and Dean would –”

“ _Charlie_ ,” Dean barks, cutting her off with a warning. It's no one's fucking business what his family used to do and he doesn't want to get into it right now. It's not her place to be talking about _his_ life and memories.

She's not too bothered by Dean's barking, used to it after all the years they've spent together, so she just sticks out her tongue and stops talking. Cas starts shifting uncomfortably like he's a kid caught between two fighting parents.

“Vodka, then.” Cas answers, smiling at Charlie as if it will diffuse the situation. Dean isn't actually mad at Charlie, and Charlie knows that, but it seems that Cas hasn't picked up on the naturally rough way they speak to each other. Charlie smiles back, kicks a puff of snow at Dean, then goes back into the bar to relay the message.

“Vodka?” Dean asks, confused. “How do you go from 'I don't drink' to 'vodka'?”

“My family is Russian, Dean, vodka may as well be water. And just because I don't drink now doesn't mean I never have. I did grow up in a church, after all.”

Dean doesn't really know what that means, but he still thinks it's funny. The only thing not funny about all of this is how vastly different he and Cas are, so much so that it stopped being cute right around the time Dean realized how much it would hurt to lose him. He feels like a fish falling for a bird, and eventually one of them will be eaten or drown.

Those ugly little seeds of doubt burrow deeper, digging into the layers of fear and guilt for sustenance, but Dean has discovered a new way of battling them, of uprooting whatever progress they make in the core of his body. He pulls Cas close, one arm tightly around his shoulders as he presses their chests together. Dean hasn't done this many times, but enough that Cas knows what's happening, so he relaxes against Dean and evens his breathing, letting himself be held.

Dean read an article once that said heartbeats will synchronize when two people are close enough, something science-y that he didn't really understand, but the writer likened it to fireflies matching their flashes when in groups. Dean understood that reference well enough, he'd seen plenty of fireflies flickering around in step with other fireflies to know that it was true, and he liked the idea that humanity was more connected than just a bunch of individuals walking around on the same planet.

He thinks it's part of the reason he has such a hard time on his own, that maybe it was more than just the comfort of having other people sleeping next to him in the same small room. Maybe his heart was so used to beating in tandem with Sam and John that it doesn't know how to beat properly alone.

Cas is a willing guinea pig for this particular experiment, enjoying the closeness as much as Dean when he presses their bodies together and waits for their hearts to sync. It helps Dean to calm down and find his center again, to control the fear and the pain and everything else lurking around inside him like hungry little parasites.

“Thank you,” Dean whispers, his mouth level with Cas' ear. Their hearts beat at the same time, thudding slowly against each other through flesh and blood and bone. It's such an intimate thing to feel, so much more personal and penetrating than sex, but it makes everything better. It makes _Dean_ better, so as long as Cas is willing to let him use his body as a numbing drug, he will.

Cas smiles against Dean's cheek. “My pleasure.” 

* * *

One week, three dates and lots of packing later, Dean arrives at the Roadhouse for the obligatory going-away party. It's late in the evening, but it was the only time everyone was available. He didn't want to deal with the usual late-night crowd at the bar, but they're leaving in the morning and he can't go without a proper send-off.

Well, he can, but he won't. Everyone else cares too much about this stupid tradition and he's not going to fight it. If he's lucky, he might be able to convince Ellen to make him one of her famous hot chocolates like she did when he was a kid. That was more Dean's part of the tradition, after all. He was too young to drink, so he and Sam and Jo would drink hot chocolate and throw marshmallows at each other while John downed his shots.

He wonders what it would have been like to actually grow up here like he was supposed to, if he hadn't of fucked everything up at such a young age. Maybe he would have fallen for Jo the way she did for him, growing up together in the same small town like the people in romantic comedies. It was too hard to make attachments, though, never staying in one place for more than a couple months. Lawrence might have been their home base, but they never stopped here for more than a few days. It was too hard on John.

At least Sammy had the benefit of the same high school for all four years. He made a handful of good friends, was able to stay on top of assignments and join all the clubs he wanted to. Dean's high school transcript looks like a ransom letter made out of magazine clippings – too many different schools, too many classes and credits that wouldn't transfer mid-semester. Sometimes he wishes he could have stayed in one place and graduated like a normal student, but other times he wishes he could have dropped out sooner. Not like he would have done anything with a diploma, anyway.

Dean wades through the crowd of people standing outside until he's through the main doors and spots his motley crew, gathered around two tables pushed together. Bobby is smiling, which happens about as often as a fire rainbow, so Dean has to suppress his initial assumption that Bobby is smiling because Dean is leaving. At least, he hopes that's not why.

Cas isn't here yet, but everyone else is. Ellen is refilling a tray of nachos and pouring more sodas, Jody is in civilian clothes and leaning against Bobby, and Jo and Charlie are both talking to that blonde guy he remembers Jo flirting with before. Adam, he thinks, but isn't quite sure.

He wanted to pick up Cas and take him here so they could show up together, but Cas wasn't home. Apparently there was some kind of meeting he had to go to with his family's lawyer, but he wouldn't elaborate. Dean just hopes that Cas hurries up, because he doesn't want to stay at the Roadhouse any longer than he has to. Yeah, he loves these people that have become his family, but he's not a fan of large crowds.

Dean sits down at the uneven table and finishes off what was left of Charlie's Root Beer, by the taste of it. She's too busy giving Adam the third degree to notice while Jo gets all snuggled up against his other side. He notices that Ellen isn't the one doing the interrogating, but if she hadn't of already done that, Adam wouldn't be sitting at the table. That probably explains the scared-to-death look on the poor guy's face.

“Hey, I'm Dean,” he says, reaching over the table to shake Adam's hand and spare the guy from Charlie's questions, “You're Adam, right?”

“Yeah,” he answers, taking Dean's hand and giving it a quick, firm shake. It sends chills down Dean's spine, hearing the guy's voice and the way he gripped his hand. Dean can't shake the feeling that there's just something about this guy that reminds him of John, and he doesn't like it. “Nice to meet you.”

It creeps him out a bit too, how Jo picked out a guy as close to a Winchester that she could find.

“So what's the plan, Dean? What did you and Cas come up with?” Jo asks, raising her voice enough to be heard over the crowd of people in the bar. Everyone turns to look at Dean.

“Nothing's really set in stone, we're just gonna see how it goes once we're on the road. I think we'll drive for about ten hours a day, which puts us at Stanford in about two and half days,” Dean explains, then stops. He has no idea what he's going to do when he's actually there, or how long it will take him to find Sam and deliver the news, so he didn't even want to attempt to plan that shit out.

No one pushes him for more information, but Charlie scowls when she sees her empty glass. She retaliates by sitting on Dean's lap, saying, “Looks like I stole Cas' spot, Deanie Baby. I guess he will just have to sit on Adam's lap, won't he?”

If there's a nickname Dean hates more than Dean-o, it's Deanie Baby. He is nothing like a Beanie Baby, despite Charlie's best attempts to liken him to one. Can't she come up with a nickname that's not incredibly flamboyant? He would almost rather be a magical unicorn than Deanie Baby. At least unicorns can impale people.

“Don't call me that, dammit,” he says, wrapping an arm around Charlie's waist and tilting to the side so he can see Jo. “Besides, I think Jo and I can agree that is definitely not happening,” he laughs.

Jo laughs too, until Adam says, “Wait, Cas is a guy?”

Everyone pauses, eying Adam carefully. When no one responds, he continues with, “I thought Cas was short for Cassie or something.”

“It's short for Castiel,” Jo says, the light gone from her voice, “is that a problem?”

Now Adam looks more uncomfortable than before, which Dean thought would have been impossible, but Adam's expression is some mixture of surprise, fear and disgust, reminding Dean why he didn't want to come out to people in the first place.

“I guess not,” he finally says, sipping on his soda, “As long as I don't have to see you guys getting all gay with each other, or whatever.”

“This is Dean's party, asshole, he can get as gay as he wants!” Charlie growls, faithfully fulfilling her self-appointed role as Dean's protector. “I'm gay, does that bother you too?”

Adam's eyebrows jump into his hairline, curiosity quickly replacing the disgust. His eyes dart between Charlie and Jo, giving his thoughts away too easily. “No way! That's totally hot.”

Jo sighs, looking both defeated and embarrassed. She pulls herself away from Adam completely. “I'm sorry, Adam, but you need to go.”

“What?” Adam says, and it almost comes across as a challenge.

“Leave, please,” Jo repeats, her fingers pulling at the skin on her forehead. When Adam doesn't get up to move, Jo loses her temper. “Seriously? Get the fuck out.”

“I can help you to your feet, if you're having a problem with motivation, boy,” Bobby chimes in, narrowing his eyes at Adam.

Adam gets the picture, albeit a little late, and rises to his feet with a sneer on his face. It would be funny if it weren't so insulting, the way Adam contorts his face into something like a cartoon villain. He mutters something under his breath that sets Jo on edge, but she doesn't react beyond looking like she's going to cry.

No one moves as he makes his way around the table, not even when he calls Dean a 'fucking homo' over his shoulder. Dean turns to say something, but is caught off guard by the way Adam walks exactly like John used to, when he was sober.

Certain thoughts flit through his mind, but Dean shuts them out. Because, really, there's no way.

Once Adam is out the door, Jo starts apologizing, but Dean cuts her off. “I bet we could all use some hot chocolate, am I right?”

Jo nods, a small smile spreading on her face as she wipes away the single tear that left a trail down her cheek. Charlie nods too, getting down from Dean's lap. Bobby gives him a weird, analyzing look like he's trying to figure Dean out, as if he doesn't already know everything there is to know about him.

Charlie and Jo walk arm in arm over to the counter where Ellen is to request some hot chocolate with extra marshmallows. Just thinking about it makes Dean's mouth water. Hopefully he can talk her or Jo into giving him a whole bag of the mini marshmallows, too.

“Where's Cas?” Bobby asks, the puzzled expression still on his face.

“I don't know, he had a meeting or something, I guess he's running a little late,” Dean answers. He tilts Charlie's cup and pulls out a cube of ice, sticking in his mouth.

“Everything going good between you two?” Bobby questions, lowering his voice and looking past Dean toward the front door. Dean turns to follow Bobby's gaze, but doesn't see anything.

“So far so good.”

“Keep it that way,” he grumbles, returning his eyes to Dean. “He seems good for you.”

_Yeah_ , Dean thinks, _he's amazing,_ but doesn't say it out loud. Being called a 'homo' once tonight is enough, and he doesn't want to give the rest of the bar's patrons a reason to harass him about it.

It isn't until an hour later that Dean starts to worry about Cas. He's in the middle of a marshmallow war against Jo, the both of them crammed beneath one of the booths instead of sitting on the seats because it's _tradition_ , throwing mini marshmallows at each other and aiming for mouths and shirt collars. Their empty mugs sit above them on the table as they ride out their sugar high in a stupid, shameless display of adults having childhood fun.

He's trying not to worry, because Cas' meeting probably just ran late or something, but it's still weird that Cas hasn't at least sent a text to let Dean know what was going on. He can't avoid his absence for much longer, though, since this whole gathering was only supposed to last about twenty minutes, but it's been almost an hour and half since Dean showed up without him. Bobby and Jody already left, since they both have to get up early for work, and Charlie is looking like she's ready to head out, too.

Ellen comes over with four shot glasses and fills them whiskey, instructing Dean and Jo to get out from under the table. Dean is hesitant, he's not ready to get this part over because once it's done, that means it's time to leave. He wanted to leave the moment he arrived, but since Cas didn't show up, he's not sure if he's ready.

Dean and Jo stand up, calling a truce and picking the marshmallow bits out of each other's hair and clothes. Ellen, Charlie, Jo and Dean each pick up a shot glass, clinking them together before downing the liquid in one smooth gulp.

“Good luck, Winchester,” Ellen says, winking, in the exact same way she used to say it to his dad.

It's weird to be the recipient this time, after seeing it no less than twice a year since he was four years old.

“Thanks,” Dean says, letting the girls hug him simultaneously.

“I wonder what's up with Cas,” Charlie says, walking Dean outside. He needs a cigarette, desperately, because he's thinking the same damn thing.

Dean can't tell if he's overreacting, but he really hopes he is. He doesn't want there to be a legitimate reason for Cas to just not show up. He doesn't want to find out that Cas changed his mind, that Cas doesn't want to go on this road trip after all, or that he doesn't want to see Dean anymore. What if this was his way of breaking things off? What if Cas didn't actually have a meeting to go to?

Just as Dean is bringing a cigarette to his lips, he hears a commotion coming from the far end of the parking lot. Charlie is already gasping before Dean even spots the source of the noise, squinting through the dark to try and see what she and everyone else is gaping at.

It's Cas, and he's in some kind of...stance, knees bent and arms up in front of Benny, who is swaying a little despite trying to focus steadily on his dark haired opponent. Benny's fists are up, closer to his face and fingers clenched.

They're fighting. Jesus fucking Christ.

“Holy shit,” Charlie breathes, her jaw dropping. She grips Dean's sleeve, not taking her eyes off the scene before them.

Dean doesn't know what to do. The instinct to jump between Cas and Benny sprouts and then magnifies, making his legs shake with adrenaline as he tries to keep himself still. He knows his way around a fight, and he's sure he could take down Benny under the right circumstances, but as he's analyzing the way Cas and Benny circle each other, he can tell that Cas clearly has the upper hand and may not need any help at all.

For one, Benny is wavering back and forth like seaweed caught in a languid current, his eyes dizzy and unfocused. He's drunk, too fueled by anger to assess Cas' stance more carefully, or he'd realize that Cas actually seems to know what he's doing.

Case in point, Cas skillfully dances on the balls of his feet, edging closer to Benny with hands ready, eyes trained on the center of Benny's chest. Dean remembers John saying something about that, how fighters don't look each other in the eye because that makes it easier to fake their next move. No, they keep their eyes trained on the heart, because that's where they can see their opponent's entire body, where they can read their next move with the angle of their hips and torso. That's what Cas is doing now, reading Benny like a Scholastic novel front to back, weighing his options as the potential outcomes unfold in his mind.

Benny is much larger than Cas, heavier and more thickly muscled, but also slower and unskilled. He punches first, his arm swinging wide like a roundhouse kick, and even Dean knows the attack will do no good. Wide hits like that are too easy to block, to easy to see coming and leaves the person's face open and unprotected. Dean learned that lesson when he was nine, trapped inside a sweltering storage unit in the middle of an Arizona summer, not allowed to leave or drink water until he successfully blocked John's right hook and landed a jab of his own.

It wasn't a pleasant way to learn, but it worked.

Cas doesn't just block the wild punch, but digs his fingers into the meat of Benny's arm and pulls. Cas' knees are still bent, lowering his center of gravity and keeping him perfectly balanced as he jerks Benny forward against him. Their shoulders connect, Benny's arm still extended and fist clenched, then Cas sweeps his front foot out and kicks Benny's legs out from under him, dropping him to the ground. Cas still has Benny's arm, using his strength and grip to keep Benny's upper body from hitting the ground too hard.

The way that Cas moved with such confidence, crisp and precise in his movements, makes Dean wonder how many years Cas has been studying martial arts. It's the only explanation for what he just saw, for the fight that Cas basically ended in one move, controlling his opponent without hurting him.

So, not water polo or lacrosse or cricket, then. Cas got his perfectly trimmed figure by being the Karate Kid.

“ _Oh my God_ , Dean! Your boyfriend is a fucking _ninja!”_

Dean doesn't know what to say, even if he could manage to get his tongue out from between his teeth, so he says nothing.

His legs carry him forward against his will, slowly and dubiously as if they're as unsure about this as he is, until he's standing over a haggard and huffing Benny laying on his back in the snow. Dean empathizes with him, his own back itching at the memory of melting snow soaking through his clothes. He has the sudden urge to unzip his pants and piss all over Benny in sweet, vindictive vengeance.

He doesn't, but it's fun to imagine.

“I'll take that vodka now,” Cas says, picking his trench coat up from the ground and brushing it off.

Dean feels sick, though he can't tell which part of him aches the worst, which part of him feels the most embarrassed, betrayed and weak. He wants so badly to be impressed, to gape at his fascinating and marvelous man's skills and what he used them for, but he can't. He can't because what he feels more than anything else is humiliation and remorse, rising like bile, burning through muscle and organs until his insides squish and bubble like useless mush.

It hurts being this helpless, this foolish. Always being rescued, always falling back into the hands of malicious miscreants, too deaf and dumb and blind to help himself out of the hole he's been digging for years. He can't call for help, can't reach toward the light, can't find the weathered path worn in the forest.

“Why is he here?” Dean tilts his head toward Benny, who has fallen asleep with mouth wide open, choking on deep, ragged breaths and wet snores.

“I don't know,” Cas admits, fixing the collar on his coat. “We should get him inside, or off the ground at least.”

Dean doesn't acknowledge the suggestion, callously unsympathetic. “Why were you late?”

“I couldn't leave the meeting,” Cas says, his hand landing on Dean's arm. “Are you okay?”

“How did you know how take him down?”

“I'll tell you all about it tomorrow in the car, Dean. For now, I need a drink.” Cas' fingers pinch Dean's jacket, tugging on him to direct them away from Benny, but Dean doesn't move.

“Why did you fight him?” Dean asks, his brain still storming like a supercell, thundering on the inside of his skull. He can't seem to focus, can't get over the fact that Benny is here, _again_ , causing trouble in Dean's life.

He doesn't know why he ever thought Benny was a good idea.

Cas scowls, growing impatient with Dean and his questions. “If you must know, he told me to use a condom with you. He said you 'get around' and started listing off your sexual partners. I didn't want to hear it, and my verbal requests for him to stop were not enough. Now, can we please go inside so I can get a drink?”

Now Cas is angry, and it's Dean's fault.

He's too damn stupid for his own good. Dean can see it now, the defensive way Cas is holding himself, clinging to Dean's jacket like a lifesaver with a bitter set to his jaw and brows. He missed it before in his panic, but now it's clear. Cas is upset, deeply and rightfully so, and probably had been even before Benny showed up with more drama. Cas could have easily hurt Benny, left him with a physical reminder of what it means to mess with the wrong guy, but he didn't. Cas is usually so well composed that his current state of distress should have sent warning flairs rocketing into the sky.

“I'm sorry,” Dean says, turning to Cas, “whatever I did, I'm sorry.”

Cas sighs, rolling his eyes like an indignant teenager, and pulls Dean close.

Their chests meet, Cas pressing their hearts together like Dean had done a week ago, the both of them warming and melting against each other.

“It's not you, it was the meeting, and I do not want to talk about it,” Cas says, his voice softening with each word. They hold each other for a few minutes, both calming down as the herd of bystanders slowly thins and walks away.

“We should leave,” Dean says, not letting Cas go, “Can we? Let's leave tonight, now. I want to get out of here.”

Cas nods, his stubble scraping against Dean's cheek. “Best idea I've heard all day.”

“What do we do with Benny?”

“I really couldn't care less, Dean.”

“I'll take care of it,” Charlie says, inviting herself into their hug with arms around the both of them. “You guys take off, have fun, find Sam. I want regular updates too, Dean.”

“I'm not leaving you here alone with Benny,” Dean counters, taking a step back to look down at the boozed up body laying at their feet.

Charlie does the same, nudging Benny's side with her foot. “Don't be stupid. Ellen and Jo are inside, and Jody is just a phone call away.” She turns to Cas, planting a kiss on his cheek that isn't quite chaste enough for Dean's liking.

“Fine,” Dean relents, “but hands off Cas. He's mine.”

It's subtle, barely noticeable, but Cas preens.

As they make their way to the Impala, Dean tries not to think about what Benny said, about how much of a slut he is or how he's probably right. For all Dean knows, he's infected with a handful of diseases and should be thoroughly sterilized.

At least Cas isn't running in the opposite direction.

He hasn't even asked Dean about his history or if he has anything, not that they've had sex yet. Cas doesn't seem like he cares at all. Maybe he's too stressed out over the meeting to give enough thought to it.

Dean keeps his mouth shut, not wanting to bring any more attention to it.

Baby rumbles to life. “Oh, I need to get my things, they're still at the house,” Cas says, buckling up, “Ellen won't mind if I leave the truck here, will she?”

“I doubt it,” Dean answers. “You sure you want to come along? No backing out once we're out of this parking lot.” He smiles, secretly worried.

“I've never been on a road trip, Dean. I am quite excited.”

“First thing's first,” Dean turns on the radio, turning up Metallica, “driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cake hole.”

Cas laughs. “Fair enough.”

It makes him miss Sam, makes that emptiness ache and twitch around the edges, but he shakes it off.

He'll see Sam again, and soon.  


	9. Chapter 9

“ _Sam, I told you not to -”_

“ _No, Dean! How could you let him do that to you?”_

“ _It's not his fault!”_

“ _You know what you sound like? One of those abused housewives that always makes excuses for their violent husbands. He hurt you, Dean! Look at your goddamn face!”_

“ _He has a disease, Sammy. It took me a long time to see it that way, but that's the truth. You don't remember dad the way he used to be, before mo – before the fire.”_

“ _Do you actually believe yourself? Look at your life! Dad has treated you like his personal slave since we were kids. You're so conditioned to follow his orders that you'll never be anything but John's good little soldier. Name one thing you've done for yourself, Dean, one thing.”_

“ _I've never needed anything I don't already have, Sam. You turned out okay, didn't you? Didn't I always get you what you needed? I didn't just do it for dad, I did it for you, too. I've got dad, and I've got you. Nothing else matters.”_

“ _No, you don't.”_

“ _I don't what?”_

“ _You don't have me. I'm not doing this shit anymore.”_

“Dean.”

Dean blinks himself back into reality, his hand dragging across his face, squinting into the dark. Baby's headlights fan out in front of them, bathing the road in an eerie, yellowish shine.

“Dean?” Cas repeats, concerned now by the lack of response.

“Sorry,” he spits out, his fingers digging into the steering wheel. “What did I miss?”

Cas doesn't answer immediately, giving Dean a moment to reestablish his surroundings. The music is off, the dashboard lights glow green and steady against the darkness, and flurries of snow blow past the windows.

“You've been awfully quiet,” Cas says, carefully, testing Dean's attention. Dean glances over at Cas, who is slouched comfortably in his seat with one hand lightly hanging on to the strap across his chest. Dean's never been an expert on reading body language, but Cas doesn't seem upset. Maybe just bored.

“Yeah, sorry, got a lot on my mind,” Dean replies, trying not to be too dismissive. He realizes now that they've been driving in near silence for almost three hours, Dean lost and wandering in the caverns of his mind while Cas patiently waited for him to initiate conversation.

If it had been Dean waiting, he wouldn't have lasted five minutes. Cas has the patience of a motherfucking saint, either that or he took the whole 'shotgun shuts his cake hole' too seriously.

“Anything you want to talk about?” Cas prompts, sitting up and straightening his posture. Dean doesn't want to burst his curious bubble, but fuck no, he does not want to talk about it.

Dean redirects the conversation, hoping Cas doesn't notice the blatant way he avoids the question, asking, “Want to listen to some music?”

Cas doesn't seem bothered by it. “Sure. I brought some CD's.”

“Oh,” Dean pauses, inspecting the dashboard and console of his Baby, “she doesn't play discs, just tapes. Sorry.”

Cas laughs, “I wasn't sure, but I did bring a tape just in case. You probably won't like the music, though.”

Dean doesn't doubt that, considering he has very a particular taste and can't stand anything the hippies and rappers these days are trying to pass off as music. Normally he would just put in one of his favorites and let it replay until he made it to his destination, but he suspects Cas would get annoyed by that pretty quickly. Sam would always bitch about it and Lisa could only stand to listen to each song once or twice before begging for something else.

“It's not, like, _rap_ or anything, is it?” Dean asks, afraid to offend him.

“Are you saying you don't like the Wu-Tang Clan? I don't know if our relationship could survive an atrocity like that,” Cas intones, trying to stop the corner of his lip from curling up into a smile.

“First off, there are exceptions to every rule,” Dean jokes back, “obviously Wu-Tang would be acceptable.”

“Good, because Wu-Tang ain't nuthin' ta fuck wit.”

Dean bursts into laughter, unable to stop himself. Cas is laughing too, breaking his perfect deadpan delivery.

“Okay, okay,” Dean says, coming down from his humorous fit, “what is it?”

Cas reaches into his pack, a navy blue messenger bag with a long black strap and a misleading buckle that's actually a button, and pulls out an old, weathered looking tape. The writing has long since rubbed off, and the plastic case is slightly cracked along the edge, but the tape reel looks to be in perfect condition. Dean takes it gently in his hand, gives it a once-over, and pops it into the cassette player.

“It's just a mix tape, I don't remember all the songs on it, I haven't listened to it in so long,” Cas answers, looking wistfully out the window.

Dean wasn't sure what he should expect, considering Cas is the weirdest, most oxymoronic person he's ever met, so he's not surprised when a raspy female voice warbles to life in the speakers, making him feel like he's in the 1930's.

Cas is, all things considered, a pretty weird person in the best way possible. He's smart and so well spoken, but a black-sheep rebel in his own family. He's polite but well trained in martial arts, quick to ask Dean on a date but slow to progress their relationship with anything physical. Dean almost expected the tape to start blaring aggressive rap music, because that would have simply added to the conundrum that is _Cas_. He's not really into whatever is playing now, but he's secretly relieved that it's not entirely terrible.

Cas looks at Dean hesitantly, analyzing his face for a reaction to the music as he remembers what songs are on the tape. Dean just smirks, turning up the volume and listening carefully.

The voice is deep but feminine, soulful and heartbroken. It does sound like something recorded a generation before the rock music Dean is so often teased for loving, but he's not familiar with the song.

 _I'm a fool to want you_.

“Billie Holiday,” Cas says, answering Dean's unspoken question. Dean has heard the name before, but never had a song or a sound to go along with it. It's not bad, but it's pretty much the opposite of everything Dean loves, and it's a painful love song that feels too weird for a road trip between two guys that aren't quite in love yet.

Well, Dean loves Cas, even if he hasn't said it yet (and won't), and Cas is far too level-headed to be in love with Dean already, assuming Dean is loveable at all, so it's pointless to think about for more than a couple minutes.

_To want a love that can't be true_

_A love that's there for others too_

Yeah, Dean's had about enough of this song already.

“Is there anything not completely soul-crushing on this tape?” Dean jokes, tapping the arrow on the console to jump to the next song.

The next song starts, and it's another oldie but more instrumental. Dean recognizes the song immediately, and he can't control the urge to sing along. It brings back a flood of memories, good ones, of his mom and dad before the night she died.

_The night we met, I knew I needed you so_

_And if I had the chance, I'd never let you go_

“Be My Baby,” Dean says, looking over at Cas. Poor guy, Dean thinks, because he's looking nervous and worried that Dean might actually get upset over the music on the tape, even though Cas seems pretty surprised by what's on it himself.

Cas smiles in return, still looking taken aback by Dean's excited response, and doesn't fight it when Dean turns up the volume even higher.

“You don't know Billie Holiday, but you know The Ronettes?”

“I just know good music,” Dean corrects, then starts singing along with the chorus. “ _I'll make you happy baby, just you wait and see. For every kiss you give me, I'll give you three_ ,” he winks at Cas, waggling his eyebrows.

Cas giggles, and _snorts_ , and it's pretty much the cutest fucking thing ever.

“ _Oh since the day I saw you, I have been waiting for you_ ,” Dean sings, belting out the lyrics at the top of his lungs, until Cas' eyes widen. Cas looks positively shocked, and it makes Dean nervous enough to stop. He quits singing, giving Cas a hesitant look, and shuts off the music completely.

“I didn't know you could sing,” Cas says, practically in awe. It makes Dean self-conscious, because he's not really that great at it, just decent enough from practice. Really, what else is there to do when you spend your whole childhood in a car, listening to music?

“It's nothing,” Dean minimizes, waving Cas' expression away, “anyone can sing.”

Except he knows that's not true, because the only other thing to do on the road aside from singing is listen to other people sing, and Sam sounds like a whining cat in heat. He doesn't think his dad is too bad, but his mom was the one with the voice like honey butter being spread over an oven-warmed bagel.

That thought makes him a little sad, and a lot hungry.

“I can't,” Cas says, “I don't think I could sing well enough to save my own life.”

“I doubt you're that bad, Cas. Maybe you'll let me be the judge of that.”

Cas scoffs. “Not happening.”

It's adorable the way Cas folds his arms across his chest, a subtle pink blush creeping across his features as he tries to hide it by turning to face his window. Dean didn't mean to embarrass him, even though he really would like to hear Cas sing one day. He wonders what that dark onyx voice of his would sound like in a song, and with all the hidden talents Cas seems to have, Dean would be willing to bet his left nut that Cas actually sounds pretty damn good.

He considers turning the music back on, but doesn't. It's getting pretty late, well into the evening and it's practically black outside minus the narrow channels in front of them, brightened by Baby's headlights. The thought of food and a bed to lay down in sounds too good to pass up at this point, so he starts keeping an eye out for a turn off.

“So,” Dean says, breaking the silence and hopefully Cas' embarrassment, “Where did you learn to fight like that?”

It takes Cas a moment to realize what Dean is talking about, then nods his head. “Oh, right. My mother enrolled me in lessons when I was six years old. It's been a big part of my life.”

Yeah, Dean would guess so.

“So what exactly is it? Karate, Taekwondo?”

Cas chuckles. “No, it's nothing special, just Mixed Martial Arts.”

MMA? Seriously? Who the fuck is this guy?

Dean's jaw hits the floorboards somewhere near the gas pedal. He's going to need a much bigger, much louder vehicle to compensate that for that much inadequacy.

“Do you, like...compete? Fight with other people?” Dean asks, picturing it in head with a little too much enthusiasm. It doesn't really matter what Cas' answer is because there's already a healthy match playing out in his imagination.

“I used to complete, yes. Not for years, though. Lately I prefer to just spar.”

“Can I watch?”

“If you'd like to, I suppose,” Cas says, his face still flushed and red, “why, does that turn you on, Dean?”

“Hell yeah it does.”

Cas practically beams under the admission, even though Dean didn't really mean to say it. He's not ashamed to admit it, how attracted he is to the passenger in his vehicle, but there are really some things he shouldn't say out loud just yet.

Because, seriously, they haven't even had sex yet.

Rutting into Cas against the wall doesn't really count, despite Dean's habit of replaying it over and over in his mind while he's jerking himself off in the shower. He probably shouldn't be saying anything that might make Cas uncomfortable, considering they are stuck together on the road and Cas can't exactly leave if he really wanted to. Still, Dean can't control the rolling excitement turning over in his chest at the thought of watching more of what Cas did a few hours ago.

“Dean?” Cas asks, barely above a whisper, starkly different than the way they were just talking to each other about sparring and turning each other on. It worries Dean, that maybe he did cross a line and now Cas is feeling weird about being alone on a road trip with him.

“What?”

Cas shifts awkwardly in his seat, tugging at the strap across his chest again, tilting his head. “I know it makes you...unhappy, but would you mind telling me more about your brother? I feel strange being on this adventure to find him without actually knowing anything about him.”

Oh, well, that makes sense. Sure, the thought of talking about Sam makes his whole body recoil like he's been slapped, but it is kind of weird to take someone along to find another person they know nothing about.

Dean can feel the walls of his guard rebuild and fortify under the determination he suddenly feels to tell Cas anything and everything he wants to know, and it freaks him out how ready he seems to be to talk to someone about it. Especially Cas, who has never even met Sam, who doesn't know anything about the way Sam was before he left. Maybe that's why it seems easier now, why it seems like he can talk about it without wanting to leap from a tall building.

Cas doesn't know Sam, or the unique Sam-and-Dean dynamic that others have always been quick to comment on. He doesn't understand the significance of his absence, he doesn't know what Dean was like before it all happened.

It's a blank slate that Dean can fill in whatever way he wants. Cas isn't predisposed to hatred or betrayal over the situation like everyone else. Cas can actually listen without turning it into a Sam-bashing party.

“What do you want to know?”

Cas considers that for a moment. “For starters, what does he look like?”

Dean laughs out loud. Of course, Cas has never seen a picture of Sam. He pulls out his wallet and hands it over, instructing Cas to flip through the pictures tucked into his wallet. The pictures are small and a little faded, but still easy enough to see.

“He's the goofy looking motherfucker right there,” Dean says, pointing to Sam's high school graduation picture, “he's about my height, takes more after our dad than our mom. He got all the brains in the family.” Dean says the last part with nostalgia, the little Sam-sized fissure in his heart aching.

The ache doesn't stop while Cas inspects the photo, some kind of fondness spreading over his face. Dean tries to stop the fissure from spreading by saying, “Obviously I got all the looks.”

Cas flips casually through the other photos. “Well you're right about one thing at least. Your parents did pass on some amazing genetics.”

“Damn right they did.”

“Are these your parents?” Cas asks, looking at the only family photo Dean has to his name. It was taken right after Sam was born, in front of the new house his parents had just bought for their growing family. Mary cradled Sam in her arms while John kissed her on the cheek, Dean standing proudly beside his new little brother.

“Yeah,” Dean breathes, trying not to let the sadness overtake him.

“Your mother was beautiful, Dean. You look just like her.”

Dean was more than used to hearing that, how much he looked like Mary with her pale hair and round eyes, or how he inherited her pouty lips and long lashes. Normally such things were said with an ounce of perversion, likening Dean to a delicate female as if he'd been born to bat his eyes and suck dicks.

Even his freckles were an annoying source of humiliation for him, somehow making him all the more feminine and submissive. Mary had a light sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of her nose, but Dean sported them all over his face body. His mom used to call them angel kisses, that every little golden speck dusting his body was a sign of adoration from Heaven above.

He actually believed that once, before the fire.

“It's funny, though,” Cas continues, narrowing his eyes at the much younger John, “You look like your parents, but Sam doesn't look much like any of you.”

Yep. Dean's heard that one too, more times than he'd like to count.

“He looks like our grandpa, on our dad's side,” Dean says, feeling defensive, repeating the same thing he's had to tell countless others.

“Is this Lisa?”

Dean turns his head toward Cas so quickly he pops something in his neck. He'd completely forgotten all about the picture of him and Lisa that she put in there nearly six months back, the two of them kissing outside on Dean's porch swing. He rips his wallet out of Cas' hands, slowing the Impala down and veering off the side of the road, putting her in park.

Cas is freaking out, his breath stuttering and eyes bulging as he tries to figure out what he's done that upset Dean so deeply, but Dean doesn't have the presence of mind to calm him down with reassurances that he's not to blame. Dean flips through his booklet of wallet-sized photographs, finding the one of him and Lisa, then pulls it out carefully enough not to bend it. He stares at it, intensely, almost as if he can speak to his past self, then rips the picture in half.

It shreds easily, first in half, then in quarters. Dean tosses all the pieces of the picture out the window.

He searches through the rest of the pictures, finding only one more of Lisa. She's in a bathing suit, posing seductively and winking, bright red lipstick to match the skimpy red bikini coming undone at the ties.

Funny how he thought she was the most attractive thing he'd ever seen.

Dean shreds that picture too, chucking it all out the window before handing his wallet back to Cas.

Cas takes the wallet with apprehension, not taking his eyes of Dean. “I'm sorry,” he says, holding the wallet as if it might break.

“Don't be,” Dean insists, smiling at Cas in an attempt to eradicate the awkwardness filling the vehicle. “I've been meaning to do that, I just forgot the pictures were in there.”

“It's okay, I wasn't bothered by it. I still have some photos of Baz, after all. I thought maybe I upset you.”

“Tell you what,” Dean says, his forced smile turning into something more genuine, “I think we should replace those pictures with new ones, don't you?”

Cas' eyebrows knit together in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“I'm saying I definitely wouldn't mind a picture of _you_ in a bikini for my wallet, Cas.”

Cas nearly doubles over with laughter, setting the wallet down between them on the bench seat. It's another thing Dean won't admit to out loud, that he actually does kind of have a thing for guys in...well, girl stuff. Not dresses or make up or whatever, but something small and sexy that can be hidden beneath regular clothes. He'd pay some serious money to see Cas in a bikini.

Dean lets his comment roll off like a joke, not wanting to corner himself into making a confession about one of his kinks. Except Cas doesn't stop laughing, to the point of having to wipe tears of humor from his face, and it starts to hurt Dean's feelings – no, it doesn't hurt his feelings because he's a man, goddammit, it just pisses him off that Cas doesn't seem to appreciate the potential sexiness of his suggestion.

“ _Anyway_ ,” Dean says, interrupting Cas' giggle fit and getting his Baby back on the road, “I'm beat. I think we should call it a night soon. Find a motel, get some grub, and get an early start tomorrow.”

Cas takes a deep breath to settle himself, then nods. “Sounds good to me.”

There's a turn off a few miles ahead that takes them to Hays, a relatively small town off the I-70. It's too dark for either of them to get a good view of the place, but Dean has been through Hays plenty of times before to know where he's going. Just off the turn is a Motel 6, a place he's stayed at multiple times growing up when John couldn't afford anything nicer. The motel itself isn't bad, just so ridiculously cheap that it allowed for more room in their food budget.

It's wedged between a McDonald's and a foreclosed diner, right off the main road next to traffic. It's probably why Cas looks so nervous to be here, inspecting his surroundings and he slowly steps out of the Impala. They walk toward the brightly lit office, Cas hovering extremely close to Dean's side and looking over his shoulder, when it occurs to Dean that they haven't exactly discussed what their sleeping arrangements would be.

Which is really fucking stupid, he thinks, because asking Cas about it now inside the office of a Motel 6 doesn't seem very fair.

They've never stayed the night with each other before, even though Cas had joked about it once after the scary movie they watched together, and he's not sure how Cas feels about it now they're facing the situation head on. Do they get a single room? How many beds? And holy shit, are they going to have sex tonight?

Dean is surprisingly unprepared for this.

If Cas had been anyone else, Dean would have slept with them fifty times by now. Even his relationship with Lisa started off with a bang, heh.

Yet here he is, slowing his pace as they near the motel office because he has no idea what the fuck he needs to ask the desk clerk for.

Dean opens the door and lets Cas walk in first, who goes straight to the desk and starts speaking with the clerk without hesitation. Obviously Cas has thought about this, because he doesn't seem nervous anymore or even apprehensive. He's not even looking toward Dean for any input, thank God.

“Just one room, please,” Cas informs the clerk, who starts clicking away on the keyboard in search of a vacant room.

 _Yes, sweet_.

“Two queen beds,” Cas clarifies when the clerk asks.

_Dammit._

Still, better than two separate rooms, at least.

Dean tries to pay for the room, but Cas brushes Dean off and hands the clerk his credit card, which is intimidatingly _platinum_ for chrissakes, leaving Dean to feel, once again, inadequate.

Since when did his life start feeling like Pretty Woman?

Cas takes the motel key cards and they head back to the Impala, driving it around the side of the building closer to their room. Dean parks right outside their window so he can keep an eye on it, even though it's right next to one of the only other cars in the parking lot. He hates parking next to other cars when he can avoid it, because Baby is a precious thing to be protected, but he always sleeps better when he knows he can see it if something happens.

Inside, the room is bare and nondescript, just the way Dean likes it. The two queen beds are draped with hideous blue and orange bedding meant to look like a collage of cityscapes. A small desk and chair are beside the ancient television and the bathroom looks like it hasn't been updated since the mid-70's. It's perfect, though Dean can't explain why. He spent so much of his time growing up in rooms just like this that eventually they all started to feel like home.

Cas doesn't share his enthusiasm for the room. He sets his belongings down on one bed, careful not to touch it more than necessary, and squints as he inspects the walls and carpet. Cas has probably never stayed in a room like this before, so Dean has to suppress the urge to tease him as he acclimates to his odious, low-budget surroundings.

“So,” Cas says, finishing his staring contest with the brown carpet stain by the nightstand, “we should go out to eat.”

Out to eat, as in not eating in the motel. Cas is afraid to eat food in the room. Hilarious.

“Nah, I know a couple great pizza places here, and they deliver,” Dean says, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from giving himself away. It's too funny watching Cas shift uncomfortably as if he can see every germ and bacterium crawling around him. It's the first time in a while that Dean feels like he has the upper hand over Cas and he's not letting that slip away so easily.

“If that's what you prefer,” Cas answers, forcing himself to sit on his bed with obvious, comical reluctance.

Oh yeah, this is going to be good.

“When in Rome, Cas!” Dean laughs, firmly patting Cas' stiff shoulder. He kicks off his shoes against the wall and strips out of his jacket, tossing it at the chair by the desk. He misses the chair, his jacket landing on the floor. Cas eyes Dean's jacket like it needs to be thrown a life preserver. “You've never been on a road trip, right? Well this is what road trippers do.”

“...and this is how you grew up?” Cas asks, still looking at the jacket on the floor. “In places like this?”

“Sometimes,” Dean admits, dropping onto his bed and clutching the remote. “Either that or we slept in the car, or squat in an abandoned house. A few times, when my dad had the money and we were in the right area, we'd rent a dry cabin for a couple of weeks.”

“What is a dry cabin?”

Dean knows Cas lived a sheltered life, but he can't be serious, can he? Who doesn't know what a dry cabin is?

“It means there's no running water. They'd have outhouses instead of toilets, usually.”

“So you're saying that when your father had extra money, you chose to stay somewhere without running water?” Cas looks absolutely dumbfounded, like he's talking to a Rubik's Cube instead of a human being. It's not too far from what Dean is feeling, either, because every time he lets himself think this relationship will work, the universe reminds him that no, it probably won't.

Dean feels like a useless lump of coal in Cas' fancy, fur lined stocking.

“Yeah, Cas,” Dean sighs, feeling defeated, “because they're usually out of the city, isolated, surrounded by trees and nature. It's a lot easier for two little boys to run around and play in a dry cabin than it is a frilly hotel room, and most of them have fire pits outside for roasting marshmallows and making s'mores. I'd rather have s'mores than silk bedsheets.”

Cas ponders that in silence for a moment, his bottom lip curling into his mouth as he nervously bites on it, likely coming to the same conclusion as Dean. It's probably best if they don't have these kinds of conversations anymore.

“Speaking of two little boys, I'd still like to know more about Sam.” It's a smart segue to a new topic, and Dean accepts it.

“Sure,” he says, “but first, we order pizza.”

Dean suggests ordering a pizza from either Gambino's or Lamato's, insisting that they're both equally delicious and satisfying, but Cas has no preference so they end up ordering one from both. Cas does, however, insist that they eat the pizza with some flatware, so they walk over the nearby gas station and pick up a pack of paper plates and plastic forks. Dean's pretty sure he's always just eaten the pizza straight from the box, utensils be damned, but Cas is having a hard enough time transitioning from prince to pauper as it is, so he doesn't complain when Cas insists on an entire box of napkins.

When they get back to their motel room, Cas seems a little more relaxed. It might have something to do with the hand sanitizer he bought at the gas station, too.

They're each sitting on their beds with a box of pizza, Dean flipping through the limited channels in search of something they can both enjoy. He settles on an episode of Law and Order, which prompts Cas to ask, “Sam wanted to be a lawyer, right?”

“That was the plan,” Dean says, shoving a forkful of pizza in his mouth, “pre-law, anyway. Not sure if that's still what he's doing.”

“Why did he want to be a lawyer?”

“Probably just so he could win arguments professionally. Fucker was always picking fights and wouldn't stop until he won.”

Cas laughs at that, but Dean doesn't.

There's a beat of silence while the both of them chew their food. Dean tries to derail his thoughts by thinking about the pizza, or what kind of batteries are in the remote, anything except -

“So he liked to fight? That must have been difficult in close quarters like this,” Cas says, lowering his voice in an effort to be more sincere.

-that.

“Uh...” Dean starts, not sure how to explain it to someone who didn't even go to public school, “he didn't fight with me, usually. Him and dad were always butting heads, pretty much since Sam was old enough to talk. Sam felt like dad wasn't doing right by us, and dad felt like Sam was an ungrateful little bastard.”

Cas nods. “And what did _you_ think, Dean?”

“I think they were both assholes,” he says, and leaves it at that.

He doesn't honestly believe that, though. Sure, they were assholes, but there was a lot more good in them than anything bad. They were both just too stubborn and bull-headed to let the petty arguments go, always finishing off the nights with one or both of them storming out.

The worst part about it was that Sam would always accuse John of using Dean somehow, of mistreating him or taking advantage of him or leaving him in charge far too often. It wasn't necessarily untrue, but Sam had a habit of using Dean just as often as dad did. He used Dean as a shield, as an excuse for picking fights, as an example of what not to do with his life. For every time that John made Dean flirt with a desk clerk for lower rates, Sam would trash the room and let Dean take the blame. For every time John got drunk and relied on Dean to get him cleaned up and put in bed, Sam would just sit there and watch with a scowl on his face.

They're assholes, but they're family. John drank and Sam bitched, but John never abandoned them and Sam was the best damn friend Dean ever had.

Memories flit in and out view.

Sam at four, running across the beach in Virginia.

Sam at six, tripping over slippery rocks into the ocean in Maine.

Sam reading an almanac beneath the covers with a flashlight.

Building Sam's 10th birthday cake out of cupcakes and mismatching cake squares Dean stole from the grocery store.

Sam's first blue-ribbon science fair project in Idaho.

Every honor roll assembly for four years at Lawrence High.

Sam walking out the door and never coming back.

“Can we talk about something else, please?” Dean asks, interrupting his own thoughts with the hope that Cas wasn't in the middle of talking. He had forgotten that there was still pizza in his mouth, he didn't hear the television or see the awful wallpaper. Dean had been completely out his mind for the second time since leaving Lawrence, and he hated it.

“Of course,” Cas says, closing the pizza box on his bed and setting it on the nightstand. “We don't have to talk about anything at all if you don't want to.”

“Good,” Dean says, too sharply. “I'm tired.”

He does the same with the box of pizza on his bed, closing the lid and setting it aside. Dean quickly strips out of his jeans, leaving his shirt and boxers on with a sudden, atypical sense of modesty, and hides beneath the scratchy bed sheets. He tries to shut his mind off, but it doesn't work in the slightest.

Maybe this road trip wasn't such a good idea after all. Maybe he should have just left Sam in the dark until he decided to come around again. Maybe, despite his ever-growing affections, he should have made Cas stay back in Lawrence. There's no way that Cas isn't regretting his decision to come along, that he's not currently wishing he could abandon ship without hurting Dean's feelings. Dean's only making it worse by sulking for no apparent reason, his back turned to Cas like he can shut him out so long as he doesn't see him.

The bed dips behind him, the blankets shift and then there's a warm body pressed up against his back. Cas wraps an arm around Dean's waist, then kisses the back of his neck with a quick, dry peck.

“Stop it,” Cas instructs, squeezing Dean a little tighter. “Your thoughts are so loud they're echoing all over the room.”

“Sorry,” he mumbles, scooting back an inch into Cas' warmth.

For a moment, Dean isn't sure what to expect. Having Cas suddenly beside him is wonderful, but this is another new step for the both of them. They've never been intimate in a bed, and for some reason that feels more significant than against a wall. He's overwhelmed with guilt, angry with himself for being so dramatic and stupid all the time, yet Cas never seems to shy away when Dean gets like this. He always manages to lighten the mood or make Dean feel...

Not loved, because they're not in love. That's a thing for lovers. Unrequited love is different than mutual love and this is not that...yet. Not for Cas, anyway.

Appreciated. Wanted. Needed.

Cas' hand strokes lightly over the soft skin of Dean's stomach as he kisses his neck again, longer and lingering with more sensuality than the first. He can't tell if Cas is doing it on purpose, but Dean's dick starts rising to attention and he doesn't know whether he should be encouraging it or wishing it away.

Then Cas' fingertips find the elastic band of his boxers, tracing along the edge before slowly dipping beneath, his lips moving from Dean's nape to the side of his neck.

Dean's skin pebbles, a shiver bolting through his body so quickly he can't help but tremble, his hips shifting upward to get more of Cas' hand below the hem line.

“Cas,” he breathes, his heart picking up pace in his chest, “wait.”

His hand stills on Dean's thigh as he huffs out a frustrated gust of air over Dean's shoulder. “What's wrong?”

“Benny,” he stutters, trying to form the rest of the sentence, but he can feel Cas' erection pressed up against his ass and it is just so damn _distracting_.

The hand on Dean's thigh curls into a fist. “What about him?”

“What he said to you outside the bar,” Dean finishes, his hand finding Cas' fist, curling his fingers over his wrist. “You're not worried?”

Cas' hand relaxes, then grips the fabric of Dean's boxers. “You'd tell me if there was anything to worry about, wouldn't you?”

Dean nods, “Yeah.”

“Then no, I'm not worried.”

Before Dean can say anything else, Cas releases the fistful of fabric and slides his hand up to the elastic hem once again, gripping it and pulling it down almost angrily with a growl in his throat. Dean gasps as his cock is freed, rubbing against the thin polyester sheets before Cas' hand finds him, closing tightly around his length.

Dean bites his lip to keep from moaning, afraid the neighboring rooms will hear him as Cas starts stroking him, nipping and licking at his shoulder, dragging his own cock up and down against Dean's ass. It's too much to hold back - a deep whine escapes through Dean's slightly parted lips, and Cas smiles against the nape of his neck. “I want to hear you,” he says, stroking Dean a little faster.

“Shit,” Dean sighs, followed by a series of moans so high and fast that he's practically whimpering, thrusting forward into Cas' hand.

It doesn't take Dean long to get there, to point of nearly spilling all over Cas' hand. The wet, hot breath from Cas panting against his ear, dark moans like obsidian, the warm friction of Cas grinding into him as his hand expertly jerks Dean to orgasm. He comes in silence, biting his lip so hard it turns white beneath the pressure, Cas following moments later. Cas' hips slow to a halt, his hand – sticky with Dean's come – creeps out of the boxers and rests on Dean's hip.

“What was that for?” Dean asks, his mind winding down from the euphoria.

“To get you to relax,” Cas confesses, pulling Dean tight against him and not letting go. “Now get some sleep.”

“Shower?”

“In the morning.”

It's a little kinky that Cas doesn't mind falling asleep with his come between them and Dean's come on his hand. Actually, he kind of likes it.

“G'night, Cas.”

Cas gives Dean a sleepy hug, then relaxes his body as he slips into sleep. Cas is lightly snoring minutes later, his chest gently pushing into Dean's back with every deep, unconscious inhale.

It's been so long since he's been able to fall asleep with someone wrapped around him, Dean had almost forgotten what it was like. There had been a few times when he'd fallen asleep next to Lisa, usually at her apartment, but Dean had a father that needed constant supervision so it wasn't something they ever made a habit of. Cas' quiet sounds of contented sleep are like his own personal lullaby, soothing him from the inside out until his lids are heavy and fluttering shut.

“ _What do you mean, Sam? What the fuck?”_

“ _It means I'm not sticking around to watch you waste your life just like Dad did. Do you think this is what Mom would have wanted for us? For you? What would Mom say if she saw Dad bust your lip open? For fuck's sake Dean, you're bleeding all over your shirt!”_

“ _Don't bring Mom into this, dammit. That's not fair.”_

“ _You know what's not fair? That fire didn't just kill Mom, it killed you and Dad too. I've spent my whole life around a couple of corpses. You're nothing but a dead weight dragging me down.”_

“ _Excuse me?”_

“ _You're both dead weights and I'm done with it. Done. Newsflash, Dean, I actually want a real life and a future without you two shackled to my ankles, and tomorrow I'm going to start living it.”_


	10. Chapter 10

Dean's eyes flutter, his lashes heavy on his lids. A distant dream snaps out of view, replaced with quiet darkness. Cobalt strips of light dance around the edges of the curtain, swaying in a lazy breeze by the heater. It kicks into gear – a rusty, half-dead sound, spitting gusts of warm air into the musty motel room.

His eyes peel open slowly. Despite the dark, Dean knows it's morning in the same foggy way people wake up right before their alarms go off, his body heavy with a familiar grogginess that means he's had nearly six hours of sleep. He is stiff and sore, but not necessarily uncomfortable. He aches from laying in the same position through the night, his arms and legs begging to be stretched, but he doesn't want to move. Cas is still curled up against him, melted against his back with a thin layer of cotton and sweat between them.

As sleep drifts away completely, Dean loses hold of his dream and he can't remember what it was. He blinks away the last of the clinging images, like negatives stuck to the back of his eyelids, and focuses on the soft, kitten-like snoring behind him. Cas fell asleep with his mouth against Dean's neck, and now his lips are slightly parted; small languid breaths puff out on Dean's nape, curling the little hairs on the back of his neck with heat and moisture. It's Heaven – an ethereal moment between him and Cas that could end at any moment, Cas none the wiser that it ever happened. Dean takes a moment to preserve the bliss and bottles it for safekeeping, tucking it away on the shelf beside his other favorite memories.

Dean wants to lay in bed forever, just like this, but rise he must. His bladder is so full it hurts, his joints are crying and his hips itch under a layer of dried, crusted come. He wants to beat the sunrise and get on the road as soon as possible, and if Cas' posh taste buds can stand it, he'd like to get some of those 2 for 1 apple pies from McDonald's for breakfast.

Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Dean carefully and quietly slinks out of Cas' hold, frowning at the colder air when he pushes back the blanket. Sharing a motel bed for most of his life taught him the valuable skill of sneaking out of one, something that came in handy more times than he'd like to admit, but he double checks on Cas anyway to make sure he's still asleep. Cas' arm had dropped to the bed, unaware of the missing body it was holding, his breathing still even and muted.

When when it had been Sam, Dean needed to be much stealthier. Sam slept like a drunk squid, flopping and flailing and twisting up the sheets, rolling on top of Dean and trapping him under a puddle of drool. Such a creature should have been hard to wake, but Sam defied that logic by sleeping lightly, waking at every sound, too well trained by John's attempts to sneak in and out unnoticed.

He wonders how well Sam slept after leaving Lawrence, if he slept soundly for the first time in his life, unburdened by his troubled father and brother – or, like Dean, if he couldn't sleep at all, plagued by the wrong kind of too-quiet silence.

Dean stretches his body, briefly, resisting the urge to groan as he does so. He sees the flashing of a little blue light on his phone, blinking on and off with an unseen alert that he received a text message. He unplugs it from the charger, keeping a hand over the speaker to muffle any new sounds, just in case. Dean is halfway to the bathroom when he debates on whether or not he should take clean clothes with him, because he'd like to take a shower, but he doesn't know the proper protocol for dressing in front of boyfriends. He decides it's silly, because there's no point in modesty when Cas slept all night with Dean's come all over his hand.

He shuts himself in the bathroom, closing the door as gently as possible despite the noisy thunk it made when it scraped against the frame. The door was ill-fitted for the doorway, obviously not the original, nearly two inches off the ground and barely able to squeeze into place. Dean silently curses at it for being so incorrect, because he'd like to jerk off in the shower before Cas wakes up. He's never accused a door of being a cock-block before, but he's certainly not above it. He'll show that door why it's never a good idea to come between Dean and his special morning time.

The stream of piss is seemingly never-ending. How big is a human bladder, anyway?

He turns on the shower and adjusts the knob as best he can, because motel showers were crafted in the bowels of Hell and never produce the right temperature water. While he waits for the water to warm up, he checks his phone. There are several text messages from Charlie and a few from Bobby, which is surprising considering Bobby's hatred for technology.

**Charlie Bradbury 1:15AM**

**> > soo your louisiana lover came to apologize if you can believe that**

**Charlie Bradbury 1:17AM**

**> > says he got nervous cause of ellen and got drunk. took him this long to sober up**

**Charlie Bradbury 1:36AM**

**> > lemme guess youre too busy getting your freak on with angel eyes**

**Charlie Bradbury 2:02AM**

**> > ok fine im going to bed. you shoulda seen bennys face when ellen brought him water. jo told him it was poisoned**

**Charlie Bradbury 2:03AM**

**> > dont forget to call me fucker i want updates**

Dean isn't sure how he feels about the news concerning Benny, so he pushes it to the side to be dealt with later after he's had a hot shower and, hopefully, an orgasm good enough to keep him from mentally dry-humping Cas' leg. He switches to the messages from Bobby.

**Robert Singer 11:04 PM**

**> > stay safe and keep in touch digit**

**Robert Singer 11:04 PM**

**> > digit**

**Robert Singer 11:05 PM**

**> > digit**

**Robert Singer 11:05 PM**

**> > ducking hell i-d-g-i-t stupid phone**

He laughs out loud at that, clasping a hand over his mouth when realizes how loud it was. Dean holds himself statue still until he's certain that Cas hasn't woken up. He can't know for sure, because he doesn't want to risk opening the door again to check, but he can't hear any new noises or movement over the steady sound of the running shower.

When he feels confident enough that Cas is still sleeping, he sets his cellphone on the counter by the sink and undresses, peeling the sticky boxer fabric from his skin, wincing when it pulls on the sensitive little hairs. By the time he finally manages to get the boxers off his body, there are small red blotches of irritated skin by his left hip that look terrible.

The complicated and deceptively painful ordeal with his boxers destroys his urge to masturbate, so instead of entertaining thoughts about Cas in a pair of pink, possibly lacy panties, he hums the tune of _Hey Jude_ under the warm spray until he's relaxed, lulled by rose-scented motel shampoo and nostalgia.

Dean relaxes so deeply that time passes without his awareness, now singing instead of humming the lyrics, taking his time with lathering the bar of soap across his body in an attempt to unwind his tense muscles. He'll never be able to clearly explain why he feels so safe and at home in a motel room, or why motel showers are the best considering their lack of steady temperature, mostly because he doesn't understand the reason himself.

There's a knock on the door, and Dean has to stop himself from turning and yelling at Sam to fuck off and wait his turn. Old habits die hard, it seems, so he reels himself back into the present as he tells Cas it's okay to come in.

“Sorry,” Cas apologizes, his voice raspier than usual, “I really have to pee.”

“No problem,” Dean answers, raising his voice to carry over the water. “Didn't mean to wake you.”

Cas mumbles something in response that Dean can't hear, but he doesn't ask him to repeat it. When Cas flushes, Dean cringes as a reflex, momentarily expecting the water to turn flame-hot. When it doesn't happen, he shrugs to himself and starts rinsing out his hair.

“May I join you?”

Dean wasn't expecting that, and he's not sure how he feels about it. He's not one of those people that holds shower time sacred, but he's never showered with anyone else before. Lisa had made it clear that she did not like to share her showers, which put a damper on Dean's hot and sexy shower fantasies. She was the only person he had ever been close enough with to have that experience, and she didn't want it.

But Cas does, and he's still waiting for an answer. Dean is nervous, and now extremely self-conscious, but manages to say, “Yeah, sure,” before his brain shuts down completely.

Cas undresses quickly and pushes the shower curtain to the side, stepping in behind Dean. He still looks half asleep, rubbing the haze from his eyes and raking a hand through his unruly hair. Dean blushes, not just on his face but his entire upper body, so he turns up the heat in a weak attempt to blame the hot water for his redness.

It goes unnoticed by Cas, who simply places a gentle hand on Dean's shoulder and guides him out of the way so he can step under the stream, soaking his hair and flesh and holy shit Dean has a boner.

The most disconcerting part of this experience is the fact that Cas seems completely unfazed by it. As far as Dean can tell, this is just another average shower for Cas and the fact that there's a naked body next to him is irrelevant. Cas isn't even shy about his own figure, and it makes Dean wonder how many times Cas must have done this in order for it to feel so natural.

Now Dean's reddened skin is torn between embarrassment and jealousy, neither of which are conducive for a calming, possibly sexy morning shower.

He cups his hands over his genitals as much as he can, idly standing there while Cas squeezes the rest of the shampoo into his palm, lathering it in his hands and smearing it into his hair. Dean watches, almost feeling perverse when he realizes how much he enjoys it. Cas is sumptuously framed beneath the spray, streams of water cascading down the plane of his toned back and torso, his hair wet and clinging to his face and neck. He's motherfucking Adonis, and belongs in one those Herbal Essences commercials chanting an orgasmic _yes yes yes_ as he rubs the product generously over his entire body.

Dean's no voyeur, but when it comes to Cas, he could be.

Cas rinses his hair and body with quick efficiency, his eyes finally opened and detached from their dreamy haze. He turns toward Dean with a smile, no hint of shyness in his stance, moving slowly out of the way and guiding Dean back under the flow of water.

Now that Cas is fully alert, the situation feels more like Dean thought it would. With Cas' full attention, he can't deny that the redness is anything but bashfulness. There's no use in trying to hide it at this point, so Dean removes his hands from what they were shielding and rinses out his hair, afraid to close his eyes as he tilts his head back into the stream.

There's water beating against Dean's ears, but he can still hear the gasp escape from Cas' mouth – concerning what, he's not sure. Cas is looking right at Dean's dick, his mouth slightly opened and eyes bugged. At first Dean thinks that Cas must be gawking at how big (or how small) Dean is, until Cas raises a finger and traces the faint outline around one of the red, irritated blotches.

Dean is about to explain, but Cas cuts him off by stepping closer and inspecting them more carefully. He sighs, looking relieved, then rubs his thumbs in small circles over Dean's hip bones. He takes another step forward until they're nearly touching, both of their erections painfully hard and curling up toward their bellies.

“I thought those were hickies,” Cas explains, one side of his lip turned up into a smile. “And since they weren't from me, I was going to be very upset.”

Dean is about to apologize for the misunderstanding, but stops himself. He's not so pathetic that he's going to say sorry for something he didn't do, yet he can't stop himself from feeling guilty over nearly hurting Cas' feelings. He can barely think as it is with the severe lack of blood in his brain, pooling instead in his gut and groin, almost throbbing with the need to close the half-inch gap between them.

Instead, he swallows his tongue, and takes a deep breath of the thick steam clinging to the air around them, coating his lungs.

“You know, they _could_ be hickies, if you wanted,” Cas says, barely above a whisper. His cheeks turn petal pink as he glances away, his fingers trembling where they sit on Dean's hips. It's the one of only two times Dean can honestly say he's seen Cas act nervous, and it's so endearing that he has to suppress the urge to reach out and give Cas a hug. The first time had been when Cas clutched at Dean's jacket at Bobby's garage, asking Dean out on a date, but this far outshines that distant moment. This is sweeter and shyer and Dean has no idea how to handle that.

When Cas is naked, stripped of his extravagances in a motel shower, pulled out of his comfort zone and thrust into an awkward situation, he's just as nervous and uncertain as Dean is.

It gives him, for lack of a better word, hope.

“What are you offering, Cas?” Dean is afraid to read too much into the comment, afraid to embarrass himself by jumping to conclusions, but there's only so many ways Cas' statement could be taken. The pink in Cas' cheeks tints red, his head tilting further down as if afraid to look Dean in the eyes.

“I'd like to...” he starts, biting on his lip. Cas looks so lost, searching his mind for the right word or phrasing. After a moment of silence, the best he can come up with is, “I want to give you...um...”

“You want to blow me, angel?” Despite the building fear in his chest, Dean finds a lingering shred of his bravado and clings to it with everything he has, feeling that slight sense of superiority that he got a taste of last night. God, he would give anything to have that mouth on him right now, but he's afraid of acting too desperate. Cas looks so timid that a stiff breeze could skitter him away.

Cas looks up, his blueberry eyes bright and focused, and nods.

Dean has never had a _demure_ blowjob before, but when Cas sinks to his knees and delicately sucks the tip into his mouth, it's the last word that flits through his mind before the bliss shuts out all rational thought.

The Earth could be splitting in two, breaking out in splintering chasms and spewing molten lava, but it wouldn't be enough to tear Dean's focus from the way Cas' lips are stretched like taut canvas over his cock, smooth like satin as they glide up and down the sensitive, reddened flesh. It's slow, almost languid, to the point where Dean has to master his self-control enough not to thrust forward and fuck Cas' mouth.

Even his tongue, wet and curled around Dean's length, moves like molasses along the underside, gently over the thick, tender veins. It's maddening, almost painfully so, but feels more amazing than anything he's ever felt before in his life. Cas' hands are feather light on Dean's hips, almost a caress, adding to the slow building orgasm budding in his gut. His hands search for purchase along the tile-lined wall as he gets dizzy from the overwhelming pleasure.

Dean's close, whimpering moans that get lost in the heavy steam, his hips inching forward as he loses control over his ability to stay still. The hold on his hips turn into a grip as Cas pulls off, his tongue darting out for a final lick across the slit before he moves his mouth to the plane of skin before him, his tongue trailing over the red-blotched patches of skin.

Dean wants to cry out at how much he needs Cas' mouth back on his needy dick until Cas starts sucking the skin into his mouth, leaving his own purpled marks amongst the red ones, nipping at the little blossoming bruises before giving each one a kiss. He kisses a line along the side of Dean's achingly hard erection, then swallows him down until Dean can feel the fluttering of Cas' throat tight around the head.

Cas moans as he hollows out his cheeks and sucks hard, still slow, but so fucking good that Dean's orgasm is punched out of him, coming down Cas' throat. He can feel each swallow tighten around him, and it's like every shred of willpower and bravado had been sucked out of him as he pulls out, dropping to his knees in front of Cas, crushing their mouths together in a desperate kiss.

They're both shaking despite the muggy heat of the shower, clinging to each other like static, kissing like the Earth really is blowing up around them. He can't explain it, but there's an overpowering fear that surfaces in the kiss, a desperate need to reassure each other that yes, they are both real and this is really happening.

It's too much for Dean, but he won't stop. The need for pure, unfiltered affection overpowers the urge to run far and fast before heartbreak catches up to him, before Cas can change his mind and leave Dean desolately forsaken like the pathetic loser he is.

He reaches down without breaking the kiss, stroking Cas almost angrily until he comes all over them, moaning into Dean's mouth. Cas bites down on Dean's lower lip, gently, tugging it out as he tilts his head back, riding out the aftershocks of his orgasm.

Dean wishes he could blame it on post-coital bliss, but the truth is that when they both collapse into each other, slipping to the bottom of the basin, Cas wrapping his arms around Dean as they catch their breath, it's not about being tired or euphoric. It's about the inexplicable magnetism that has them united, despite how broken and weak Dean is and how Cas doesn't have all the pieces or tools to put him back together.

As Dean sits between Cas' legs, cradled and warmed on all sides, he understands with a sudden clarity that this is something he simply cannot lose. It's not a moment he can stick in a metaphorical jar, but an entire potential future that he gravely needs to survive. It's horrifying how dependent he's become on Cas for that happiness, like he's nothing without it, so when tears spill from his eyes he bites his tongue and pretends they're droplets from the spray.

* * * * * 

An hour or so later, they're back on the road. Dean's mood could only be described as elated; he's got his favorite Zeppelin tape playing, a bag full of apple pies from McDonald's filling his Baby with the sweet scent of cinnamon and nutmeg, and a boyfriend sitting beside him that gives blowjobs like a champ.

The sun rose sometime while they were in the shower, but it was still low enough in the sky by the time they finished packing that Dean considered it a win. Cas had eaten the leftover pizza, whining first about the lack of a complimentary continental breakfast, then about the substandard coffee and dollhouse sized coffee pot. Dean promised to take Cas to a Starbucks, which he excitedly agreed to, and rewarded Dean by rubbing the back of his neck as they drove.

Cas ordered some kind of Tai Chi drink, and though he insisted repeatedly that it was actually called Chai Tea, it didn't stop Dean from teasing him about it. It smelled a bit like Dean's apple pies and made his mouth water, but he refused to taste it on principle. He might like dudes, but that doesn't mean he isn't a Winchester and Winchesters don't drink frilly froufrou crap. Except Sam.

Okay, two-thirds of the Winchesters don't drink -

Wait, John's dead.

Fine, so it's 50-50. Dean still won't touch it.

Instead of dwelling on that awful reminder, he focuses on the marvelous way Cas' fingers massage the tension out of his neck as Dean takes another apple pie from the bag, opening the little box with one hand and savoring the scent.

“How far do you think we'll make it today?” Cas asks, turning down the music.

Dean thinks about it for a moment, shrugging. “I don't know. We can just go until we feel like stopping, I guess. It's your first road trip, you can decide.”

Cas smiles, “If it's all the same to you, I think I'd like to stop in Denver.”

Dean makes a quick mental assessment about how long it will take them to get to Denver, and isn't sure how he feels about the fact that it's only five hours away. He had hoped to cover a little more ground today, but he can't exactly go back on his word right after he told Cas he didn't care. There are some upsides, though, because less time driving means more time actually doing stuff, and when it comes to Cas, he really doesn't mind _doing stuff_.

“Any particular reason?” Dean asks, finishing off the apple pie.

“Honestly, I was hoping I could take you on a real date.”

It's a good thing Dean already swallowed his food, otherwise he'd be choking on it. It's not so much the idea of a real public date that throws him off, but how awkwardly formal Cas seems to be when it comes to these conversations. Formal and incredibly shy, which makes it all the more endearing, especially when he blushes and turns away in fear of rejection.

“Sounds good to me,” Dean says, resting a hand on Cas' knee, rubbing his thumb back and forth over the denim. “What did you have in mind?”

Cas warms at the acceptance, putting his own hand over Dean's. “I'm not very picky, Dean. I don't have a lot of experience with dates, so whatever you would like is fine with me.”

Dean won't complain about that at all, he loves having a little control over those kinds of things, especially food, but he's confused by what Cas means about not having a lot of experience with dates. Wasn't he with that Baz guy, for like, several years?

“I take it you and Baz didn't go on a lot of dates?”

“Much of our relationship was kept a secret. There wasn't a lot of opportunity to go on dates when part of our goal was not to get caught. Balthazar did attempt to turn several of our trysts into something more date-like, but it wasn't quite the same.”

Dean makes a quite side note in his mind that Baz = Balthazar, which is still a pretty weird name but makes more sense than just Baz, then feels a slight pang of pity for Cas. Sure, Dean has never met Balthazar and he's already jealous of their history together, but he still feels bad that Cas couldn't enjoy a semi-regular relationship with him.

“Can I ask you something?”

Cas sighs. “Of course, Dean. You don't have to ask for my permission first just because you think it might upset me.”

“Ah, sorry,” he starts, giving Cas' knee a gentle squeeze. “You and Baz dated for a long time, right? How come you didn't want to be with him when people found out? I mean he wanted to keep it going, right?”

“Yes,” Cas nods, his tone darkening, “I very much hate having my hand forced, Dean. When he gave me that ultimatum, I felt more betrayed than anything. I'd spent my whole life keeping my sexuality a secret, being groomed for a degree and a career that I didn't want. Nothing in my life had been _my_ choice, what _I_ wanted, except for Baz. So when he forced me to go public with him or end the relationship, I chose to end it. I didn't want one more person in my life trying to shove me into a mold I didn't fit.”

“But that was before you were outed, right? Didn't seem like there was anything left to lose at that point, so why not?”

Cas gives him a confused sideways glance. “Like I said before, I still hadn't forgiven him. I'm not one of those people that can just pick a relationship back up after it's been dropped. I thought I loved him, but in light of recent events, I don't think what he and I had together was really love.”

“Recent events?” Dean asks, his heart kicking around in his chest. Does that mean what Dean thinks it means?

Cas turns red and tilts his head toward the window.

“Did something happen?” Dean pushes, trying to control the curiosity in his voice. Cas just shakes his head and shrugs.

“No, don't worry about it. I just meant that Baz and I were clearly not meant to be, that's all.” He runs his fingers over the back of Dean's hand, keeping his gaze trained outward at the passing scenery.

Dean wants so badly to just drop the subject, but he can't stop thinking about the way he phrased that particular sentence. It sounded too much like what Dean was experiencing, how what he had with Lisa seems like nothing in comparison to what he's feeling for Cas. He hopes, desperately, that maybe that's what Cas meant – that Dean is better than Baz, that what they have together is better. It's a girlish thought, and selfish, but he lets himself have it.

He's about to change the subject when Cas turns toward him again and speaks up. “While we're on the subject of exes, may I ask if you've ever had a serious relationship with a man, and why you never told your family about your preference? They seem like very accepting people.”

“Kinda,” Dean confesses to the first part of Cas' question. “It was in high school – well, at one of the high schools I went to before I dropped out, there was this guy I really liked and we hit it off. We dated in secret for a few months until we had to move, and I broke things off with him the night we were leaving. I, uh...I really liked him, but I knew we weren't staying there forever and I shouldn't have led him on like that, knowing I'd have to end it sooner rather than later, but I wanted it anyway. I was selfish enough that time to let myself have it.”

“I'm really sorry to hear that.”

“Don't be. We weren't in love or anything, but it was the longest relationship I've ever had with a guy. Nothing recent, until now.”

Cas smiles, and Dean smiles back. It's funny to be flirting with the person he's already dating, another new occurrence for him, but he loves it. Cas' reactions are almost as good as pie and that's saying something.

“As far as not telling anyone...I don't have a good answer for that. My dad was really...well, he was sick. I spent a lot of time, probably too much time, trying to make him happy and make his life easier. I worried that he'd be disappointed if he found out, or think less of me than he already did. After what I did to--”

Dean stops short, biting his tongue. He's never let that much slip out before, not to anyone, and he can't believe he just almost said it in front of Cas. It doesn't matter if he trusts Cas, he can never tell anyone that secret no matter how much he wants to. It's his burden, and his alone. Cas would probably leave him if he found out, anyway.

Cas narrows his eyes, waiting patiently for Dean to continue. Bless him, poor guy, for being so polite and formal that he won't even ask Dean to explain like anyone else would have. But Dean won't, and can't, and at this point there's nothing he can say to finish the sentence that won't obviously be a lie or a redirection, so he just plucks another pie from the bag and starts eating.

The subject is dropped, and the music gets turned up.

* * * * * 

Driving through Kansas to Colorado is largely uneventful, with very little scenery to keep things interesting. They invented a hilariously painful game of slug-cow, which was basically punching each other every time they saw a farm animal. After a ridiculous number of punches that turned into bruised upper arms, they changed the rules slightly so that they only punched each other each time they saw a tractor. It seemed like a good idea at first, until they passed by several miles of farm rental equipment.

Somehow, the punching had evolved into more playful and sexual tactics. At first it was to avoid further bruising, but now it seemed more like a game of gay chicken than anything else. Dean would smack Cas' thigh, Cas would pinch Dean's nipple, Dean would smack Cas' inner thigh a little closer to the groin, and so on. It escalated to the point of both them feeling like sore, awkward kids skirting the underlying truth that they really just wanted to touch each other, but it was fun nonetheless. Oh, and Dean totally won.

When they neared Denver, they called a truce and debated on whether or not to return to slug-bug (or punch-buggy, as Cas calls it, which is totally _wrong_ ) or to quit the game completely. A quick assessment of their purpled shoulders made the decision for them.

They debated, too, on where they should spend the night. Dean insisted on another regular motel, but Cas practically demanded they stay somewhere with at least four stars. After twenty minutes of discussion, they decided it would be best to leave it up to fate and flip a coin. Cas picked heads, Dean picked tails.

So naturally, it lands heads-side up.

Cas uses his fancy phone with a GPS to search for the nicer hotels, but when he mentions staying at the Ritz-Carlton, Dean nearly shits his pants.

“Fuck no, Cas. I'll stay in a gaudy hotel with you, but for the love of all that is holy, please do not make me go there.”

“What's wrong with it?”

“Are you kidding me?

Cas frowns, looking back at his phone. “The website says it has complimentary newspapers, a restaurant, a gym, even a designated smoking area where you can go to sulk about your gilded cage.”

Dean snatches the phone from Cas' hand and looks at the long list of amenities. “Yeah, and it also has a ballroom. A _ballroom_ , Cas. And what the fuck are 'Beauty Services'? I do have a little dignity left, and there's no way I'm losing it just to stay somewhere called the motherfucking _Ritz_.”

Cas pouts, hardcore. “But Dean, think about the 24-hour room service. You could have fresh pie and beer at two in the morning if you so wished.”

“No.”

Cas rolls his eyes with a bitchy, elongated sigh. Dean does feel bad, but at the same time he knows he wouldn't stay somewhere that goddamn deluxe unless his life depended it. Several minutes pass while Cas searches more hotels in the area and Dean drives around a little aimlessly.

Then Cas' eyes brighten and a smile creeps back over his face. He tried to hide it by biting his lip and looking away, and when Dean asks him what's got him so excited, Cas says, “Do you trust me?”

“When it comes to hotels? No.”

“Oh, come on, that's not fair,” Cas contests, typing something into his phone. “You really should, because I've found us the perfect place.”

“Why do I have a hard time believing that?”

“Dean, stop being impossible. If you don't love it, you can pick all the motels and eateries from here on out, with no complaints from me.”

Dean thinks about that for moment, giving Cas a suspicious look. “And the music.”

“Fine, the music too,” Cas concedes, his eyes pleading for Dean to accept the surprise.

He sends out a quick prayer to the universe that it's not anything like the hotel Cas just suggested, then nods in agreement. Besides, he's too curious now not to see what Cas has in mind.

But then Cas smiles broad like the Montana sky, clicking away on his phone screen in excitement, and Dean thinks he could put up with whatever Cas picked out so long as he stays this happy.

“So where are we going on this date?” Dean asks, growing tired of wasting gas on the highway when he still didn't know where they were going.

“Actually, I think we should go to the...to where we're staying, first.”

“Good idea. Would be nice to unpack and freshen up before we go anywhere.”

Cas refuses to tell him where they're headed, directing him where to go with the directions on his phone. It's nerve wrecking to say the least, because those big ass hotels give him an uneasy feeling and make him want to crawl back up into his mother's hole, but Cas wouldn't intentionally take Dean somewhere that would piss him off.

Would he?

They end up driving north past Longmont, somewhere between there and Loveland, and then west toward the north side of Rabbit Mountain. The dark mountains were a beautiful contrast to the pale blue sky, a jagged skyline that Dean hadn't seen since he was a lot younger, surrounded by miles and miles of rural landscaping. It was actually really nice, but Dean was still afraid of getting his hopes up. He wouldn't be surprised if some rich Trump-like asshole built a wallet draining resort way out in the middle of the country.

Despite being out of the city, it's not until Cas directs him to turn down a narrow road surrounded by a thick forest that he starts to get suspicious. He can't think of a place way out here in the middle of the middle of the woods, at the base of a mountain no less, that would appeal to Cas in the slightest. Dean suspects there's some kind of RV camp or tent site at the end of the road, somewhere he's very accustomed to staying at, but there's no way that would get Cas excited enough to smile and almost clap his hands.

“Normally I'd make a joke about you bringing me out here to kill me, but I think we both know you would'a dragged me to the Ritz-Carlton if you wanted to see me die. So what's the deal?”

Cas laughs but doesn't answer the question. He just smirks at Dean, who can't figure any part of this situation out, and looks back at his phone. “Take a left up here.”

Dean grunts, but does as he's told.

It's not long after the turn that they're passing under an old wooden archway, the letters faded and unreadable. A series of small, cabin-like buildings are scattered around the main pathway, with a much larger lodge on the right. It looks like something right out of Friday the 13th.

He parks the Impala in the only open lot that looks like it's designated for parking, and Cas can't seem to wipe the smug smile off his face. They get out of the car and Cas directs Dean to follow him into the lodge – or the main building, whatever it is, and he's completely shocked by what greets him beyond the front doors.

It's undoubtedly ornate, like he suspected it would be, but in a woodsy, huntery, rustic kind of way. The interior matches the exterior, very much a log cabin with an oversized fireplace by the seating area, a flat screen television and hardwood floors. The wall to his left is lined with brochures for nearby attractions, most of which are camping and fishing and boating. He's so distracted by the all the details, like the antlers mounted on the wall or the decorative skis above the check-in counter, that he doesn't realize Cas has already finished checking them in.

“What is this place?” Dean asks, still unsure on whether or not he likes it.

Cas must sense his unease, like he usually does, because he says, “Don't make any judgments yet, you need to see our room first.”

They get back in the Impala and Cas tells him to drive further down the main road, smaller cabins lining the left side and larger ones on the right. The cabins on the left are numbered, so when Cas tells him that they're in number 28, he knows how much further he has to go. According to Cas, there are a total of thirty cabins, so theirs is close to the lake at the end of the road.

When he pulls up to it, Dean starts to feel nervous. He had just told Cas the other night about his fond memories in cabins, but he didn't want Cas to feel uncomfortable again just for his sake. Plus, he rather liked their shower this morning, and if this cabin is dry then that puts to bed any fun plans he had brewing in his noggin.

“Wait until you see the inside,” Cas says, pulling the key out of his pocket and leading Dean toward the door.

He should have never doubted Cas, because really, this is better than anything Dean could have imagined.

True to his memory, it's a small cabin similar to the ones he used to stay in as a kid, except a hell of a lot nicer. It's one big open room, with a small but expensive looking kitchenette in the corner and a king-sized log bed centered against the far wall. It's draped with a dark red quilt and more pillows than any two humans could possibly know what to do with.

On the opposite side, there's a flat screen television – smaller than the one in the main lodge – mounted above a fake fireplace emitting a soft golden light. There are two other doors, one that presumably leads to a bathroom and one that leads outside to a deck.

Dean goes through the back door, way too excited to control his pace, and marvels at the wide deck with more log-themed furniture and a small staircase that leads into the woods. By the chairs, he sees a large circular table made of stone with a hollowed-out center meant for firewood.

It's some kind of fancy fire pit table.

“Cas,” he says, but can't think of what to add to that.

“I told you,” he says, smug and arrogant, coming up behind Dean and wrapping his arms around him. “It's expensive and convenient for wussies like me, but a cabin for you.”

“What is this place?” He asks again, his brain short-circuiting.

“It used to be a summer camp for kids a long time ago, but closed down when they didn't get enough revenue. Whoever bought it turned it into a place for tourists.”

It's so perfect that Dean really doesn't know what to do. He doesn't want to know how much this cabin cost, or how expensive the stainless steel appliances are or why anyone would bother with a fake fireplace, but it's amazing. They have a view of the lake out one window and a view of the forest out another, he can smoke on the patio if he wants to and there aren't any neighboring walls he has to be politely quiet for.

When he can't think of the right words to say, he turns and kisses Cas with every ounce of love and appreciation he can muster.

They finally pull apart after a couple minutes of wet, noisy kissing, leaving Cas nearly breathless.

“All the amenities are on the other side of the road, if you were wondering,” Cas says, still smiling, “there's a place to eat, and a little grocery store if you want to get some graham crackers, chocolate and marshmallows. Movies, too.”

“S'mores? Really?”

“Yes, Dean. Really.”

“Fuck yes!” Dean plants another quick kiss on Cas' forehead, then grabs his hand. “Lets bring our stuff in, then go to the store and get what we need, okay? I'm not wasting a minute of this place.”

Cas, deservedly smug, winks.

Dean's phone starts ringing just as they've finished unloading the car. It's Charlie, no doubt looking for an update. He debates on whether or not to answer it, until Cas offers to go to the store alone so Dean can talk without being rushed.

Cas grabs his wallet and heads out the door, so Dean grabs his pack of smokes and goes out to the patio, sitting in one of the oversized, overstuffed chairs, sinking into it.

“Hello?” Dean says, lighting his cigarette.

“ _Hey fucker. You were supposed to call me this morning when you got my texts.”_

“Sorry. We had a...uh...eventful morning, and we just now checked into another place for the night.”

“ _Seriously? It's only noon, I figured you'd be driving all night_ ,” Charlie says, the sound of her crunching on something echoing through the phone.

“Yeah, seriously, and this place is fucking amazing. He actually found some kind of cabin resort just because I told him I liked to stay in cabins when I was a kid. Fuck, Charlie, I am so screwed.”

There a moment before she replies, and Dean can actually hear her trying to figure that out in her head.

“ _It's amazing, but you're screwed? Explain, Winchester_.”

“If you tell anyone else, especially Jo, I'll kill you,” he clarifies, then says, “I'm so fucking in love with this guy, it hurts.”

“ _Well, yeah, no shit. It's not every day you meet someone you really like, but when you do, it's pretty fucking obvious_.”

“Gee, thanks Charlie, that helps.”

“ _I mean it, Dean. You don't fall often, but you do fall hard and fast. Normally I'd be worried, but Castiel is head over heals for you too. Have you told him how you feel_?”

“Uh, fuck no. In case you've forgotten, the last time I felt this way about someone they dumped me.”

Charlie sighs, either frustrated with Dean or getting bored of the conversation. Dean takes a deep drag from his cigarette and blows the smoke out in the direction of the trees, watching the little cloud dissipate in the branches.

“ _Castiel isn't Lisa_ ,” Charlie finally says, almost as if she didn't want to say it.

“I know that, dumbass.”

“ _Do you? Because you're basically punishing him for something someone else did. I'll always be Team Winchester, so know that I'm just looking out for your best interests here, but you either need to leave him or love him. And you know what I mean by that, dick. Either you're over Lisa, or you're not._ ”

“Thanks Dr. Phil, I guess I've just been too preoccupied with all this 'dead dad and estranged brother' crap to be that selfish.”

Dean hangs up the phone, interrupting whatever Charlie had started to say. He doesn't know why it upset him so much to hear what she said. It's not like any of it wasn't true.

It really pisses him off because it was supposed to be a good conversation, and because Charlie is his best friend and he misses her like crazy, but between John, Sam, and Cas, Dean is just a little emotionally thin these days.

His phone buzzes. A text from Charlie.

**Charlie Bradbury 12:27 PM**

**> > PMS much?**

With a final puff on his cigarette, he writes her back.

**Dean Winchester 12:27 PM**

**< < ya ya ill take a midol**

He hears something inside the cabin, turning to see Cas through the large window, putting some groceries away in the kitchenette but leaving the s'mores stuff out.

Maybe he will man up and tell him how he feels, regardless if Cas feels the same way or not. It's only right, after all, because he is so not in love with Lisa anymore and Cas is a million times better. Charlie is right, this weird romantic limbo they've got going on is only making things awkward between them.

He takes a deep breath, dropping the butt of his cigarette into the fire pit basin, and opens the door.

“Uh...hey, Cas? Can I talk to you about something?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be written from Cas' perspective, and I believe there will be one more from his point of view further down the story line.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is from Cas' perspective. Oh, and Happy Valentine's Day for those who celebrate it!

Dean Winchester is a truly perplexing creature.

Castiel knew this before he pursued him, the unforgettable man he mistakenly tried to save, with eyes like clovers and dark blonde hair like honey. To look at Dean was to see the changing of the seasons, the way summer greens fade to golds and reds, the way the leaves become crisp and frayed and fall. Beautiful, yes, but fragile and victim to the wind, too close to death.

There are many things about Dean that he doesn't understand, though he's learned how to dance around those blurry lines when necessary. He knows that Dean is a simple man with equally simple pleasures, loyal to family and friends, and a hard worker that doesn't like to get things for free. He likes pie and coffee, scary movies and motel rooms. And, even if Dean won't admit it, he likes cuddles and kisses and sunsets, too.

The dark side of Dean is more obvious, despite his efforts to keep it hidden. He's a caretaker with no one to take care of, like a shepherd without a farm or a wolf without its pack. He's angry about things that Cas can only guess at, though most of the time it's fairly easy to read between the lines. Sometimes Dean will start to say something, then stop and redirect the conversation. Sometimes he will stare at nothing for extended periods of time, talk in his sleep or look at Cas as if he's expecting someone else.

Cas can deal with all of those things. They're not particularly off-putting or worth being afraid of. The dark doesn't outweigh the light, and he suspects that Dean will come to realize that about himself in due time. He has some experience with difficult partners, people that behaved far worse than anything Dean's ever done since they've known each other, and he wishes there was some way to show Dean just how strong he is for being functional after what he's been through.

This leads to Big Problem #1. Dean hates himself – and not because of low self esteem or any specific failure, but because he genuinely believes that he is worthless. Cas has made several efforts to counteract that poisonous illusion, but the belief runs so deep that it has created a wide chasm between Dean's perception and reality. There's a disconnect there that doesn't allow him to see an accurate reflection - his brain is stuck in a haunted fun-house, a labyrinth of nightmares and distorted mirrors too complex for Cas to navigate.

Big Problem #2 is less defined but more puzzling, and also happens to be the source of Big Problem #1. Before Cas went to the cemetery to walk Dean home, Bobby and Ellen had cornered him in the garage and told him a few things about Dean they thought he should know. He wasn't sure if it was a good idea to know things about Dean's life that he didn't tell him directly, but at the time Dean was still drowning himself in alcohol and there was no relationship on the horizon. They swore Cas to secrecy and begged him not to hurt the man they loved as a son.

When Dean was four years old, his family home caught on fire. It was late at night after Dean's dinosaur-themed birthday party, and in a mad scramble to find and save her children, Mary Winchester fell down the flight of stairs and broke her neck. John pulled Sam out of his crib, found Dean hiding under the dining table, and instructed him to take his baby brother outside and call for help. When the paramedics and firefighters arrived, they had to pull John off of his wife and drag him out of the house. He had been trying to perform CPR, futilely, while Dean cradled a crying Sam in the snowy front yard.

Bobby said that it changed John irreparably. He and Jody took the boys into their home for a couple of weeks to give John time to mourn, but instead he used the time to pack their essentials and sell everything else. He left Lawrence with the boys, and the only times they were seen again were on the rare occasions they made a pit stop at the Roadhouse. John didn't call or keep in touch outside of those short visits, and the boys never talked about where they lived or what they had been up to. It wasn't until Dean was eighteen that they moved back to Lawrence for good, and whenever they tried to talk to him about what he'd been through, Dean would close up or threaten to leave. No one was even allowed to acknowledge his birthday.

The fire was determined to be an accident. Someone left a candle burning in the living room. Those things have a way of happening, like all accidents do, yet for some inexplicable reason Dean blames himself.

Essentially, Big Problem #2 is that Dean has been systematically taught that nothing, not even love, can be permanent. He was raised like a tumbleweed, his father was unpredictable, his brother abandoned them as soon as he was old enough, and Lisa threw him away for no apparent reason. Dean's brain isn't wired to anticipate anything long term, isn't capable of imagining a stable future with one person he can trust. The only thing he's ever allowed himself to cling to is a lifetime of working at Bobby's garage and driving his beloved Impala.

Cas doesn't know why Bobby and Ellen felt it was important for him to know those specific details about Dean's history. They simply dumped the information on him and then told him to be very careful.

He should have listened, because if he'd been more careful, he wouldn't have fallen in love with Dean Winchester so quickly.

Taking into consideration Big Problems #1 and #2, it's very likely that Cas has fallen in love with a man that is incapable of reciprocating it.

So when Dean shyly opened the back door of the cabin, saying he wanted to talk to Cas about something, he wanted more than anything for Dean to confess feelings of love. It was a long shot, and sure enough Cas had been wrong to get his hopes up. Dean stumbled on his words, blushed, raked his fingers through his short butterscotch hair, then went back outside for another cigarette.

When it comes to Dean, Cas has learned that it's better to let him drop the conversation and not pry into it. So that's what he did. Dean smoked a cigarette and Cas finished putting the bag of groceries away. Then they made s'mores, walked down to the lake for a bit, sat together in front of the fake fireplace and watched television, made out like a couple of kids until they came in their pants, then went to bed.

That was yesterday, and while Cas had secretly hoped that Dean would bring up whatever he wanted to say again, they'd been on the road for over eight hours and he was still acting like it never happened. They're somewhere just west of Salt Lake City, Utah. Dean is gripping the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles are blanched, his breath is shallow and his gaze is fixed in front of them. Cas can't know for sure, but he has a pretty good guess for why Dean is so tense. With every mile they master, Dean gets a little more on edge.

He's probably nervous now that they're getting close to Stanford. If they stop somewhere for the night in the next few hours, they'll be at their destination tomorrow. Cas knows that ideas usually seem much better before they're enacted, especially ones as emotionally vexing as this, but there's little he can do to ease the tension except break the silence with something amicable. Speaking up after it's been quiet this long is a gamble, because there's no way to know for certain how Dean will react, but if Dean gets any more anxious he'll break the steering wheel off.

“Dean,” he says quietly, placing a hand on his thigh, “where would you like to stop for the night?”

The shift in Dean's position is minimal, but enough that Cas knows he was heard. Dean chews on the inside of his cheek, a habit that he often does when he's nervous, and says, “Elko sound okay?”

Cas has never been to Nevada, but he knows that's not the point of the question. “Sure, sounds fine to me.”

Dean nods, then adds, “It's about two or three hours from here, but there's not much else between here and there. Pretty sure there's no fancy hotels there, though. Hope that's alright with you.”

Truth be told, Cas doesn't mind motels all that much. His first experience in the Motel 6 had been jarring, and he was convinced that he would need some kind of bio hazard shower after staying there, but once he allowed himself to settle in and lay beside Dean, it was rather nice. His insistence on staying in a nicer hotel was an attempt at spoiling Dean, because he deserves to be pampered and have a taste of the good life, but his adamant refusal of accepting anything more than he can afford has made it difficult to do so.

“I don't really care where we stay, Dean. I would like to get just one bed this time, though.”

Dean jerks his head toward Cas, his eyes wide and surprised. Cas can't help but think how much Dean's eyes look like lily pads.

“I'd like that, too.”

Sometimes Dean makes Cas feel like a predator. The only time that Dean ever initiated anything sexual was on Valentine's Day, when he held him up against the wall and let himself take what he wanted. Since then, Dean has been more reserved, almost careful around Cas as if he doesn't have his permission to touch him. Even when Cas touches him first, it takes a few minutes for Dean to really respond and get into it. He'd be worried, but Dean is always so grateful afterward and holds him close until they both fall asleep.

Cas doesn't fully understand it, but he doesn't know how to bring up the subject casually. Clearly Dean has been in sexual relationships before and he knows that Dean has had multiple one-night stands. And yet they still haven't had sex, despite staying the night with each other and embarking on this cross-country journey. It makes Cas wonder if he's doing something wrong.

“Uh...you know, we don't have to go right to Stanford. I mean, if there's other places you wanted to see, we can definitely go there first.”

Ah, Dean is so nervous that he's trying to postpone the upcoming reunion. Cas thinks for a moment, debating on whether or not to indulge Dean's fears. The longer that Dean puts this off, the worse the anxiety will get for him. It's probably better that they get this over with so Dean can get back to his life.

“I'd be happy to go on a real road trip with you, but preferably after we speak to Sam. I think we'll both feel better once you've told him the news.”

Dean swallows a dry lump in his throat and licks his lips, his fingers tapping restlessly on the wheel. He nods after a moment, saying “Yeah, you're right,” and turns up the volume on his stereo. Cas wasn't familiar with Dean's favorite bands before this trip, but they're starting to grow on him. If it wouldn't freak him out, Cas would even tell Dean that waking up to him singing Hey Jude was one of the best mornings he's ever had.

A Zeppelin song is playing now, but it's slower and more melancholy than anything else he's heard on the tape. Cas doesn't understand all of the lyrics, nor does he understand the overall message of the song just yet, but the tune is making him feel rather lonely. Dean looks like he's feeling the same way, so Cas unbuckles and slides over to the middle of the bench seat, resting his head on Dean's shoulder.

If he could, Cas would press their chests together in the way that Dean likes. He's found that he's grown rather fond of that, too.

Dean relaxes a little at the touch, his fingers settling and breath deepening until he's calm.

“I swear you're like some kind of psychic mind reader,” Dean jokes, a small smile budding on his lips. He turns and kisses the top of Cas' head.

“Why is that?”

“You always seem to know exactly what I'm thinking. It's like, I was just thinking about how I wished I could hold you right now, and then bam, you scoot over.”

Cas laughs. “Hardly. Most of the time I have no idea what's on your mind.”

“Really?” Dean eyes him with disbelief, studying him for some kind of indication that he might be joking.

“Yes, really. To be perfectly honest, I'm still not even sure if you wanted me to come along with you or not. Sometimes it seems as though you would have preferred I stayed home.”

There's a long pause after Dean's face wrestles with an array of emotions that Cas can't decipher. Dean's eyes narrow with concern as he pulls his lower lip between his teeth, then glances out the side window as they pass a mailbox with a strip of reflective tape. Something about the mailbox pushes him deeper into thought, Cas assumes, because the corners of his heart shaped lips turn down and his thumbnail digs into the firm leather cover over the steering wheel.

It's times like this when Cas wishes he were more socially inclined. He was raised to be forward and direct, honest but not rude, and while it has served him well and helped him avoid misinterpretations, it can be upsetting for other people if they feel put on the spot. He's learned that not everyone shares his enthusiasm for candor, and so far Dean hasn't been an exception.

Dean takes a deep breath and sits up a little straighter, moving Cas' head where it rested comfortably on his shoulder. He takes it as a sign that Dean no longer wants to be touched, so he starts to move back toward his side of the Impala when Dean reaches out and takes his hand.

“You think I don't want you here?” Dean asks, a slight tremble in his voice. His hand is heavy on Cas', so tight that it's almost desperate.

“I didn't mean to upset you,” Cas starts, afraid he's ruined their pleasant streak. “But, yes...sometimes I think you'd rather be alone on this trip than with me.”

They had a late start this morning, and technically didn't get on the road until the early afternoon because Dean was reluctant to leave the cabin behind, so after eight hours of driving they're in the middle of nowhere and it's dark. It didn't seem significant a moment ago, but the way Dean is looking at him now has Cas worried and excited all at once. If they fight, if Cas succeeded in making things terribly awkward, they're still hours away from being able to stop for the night and it's too dark to pretend to watch the scenery pass by.

On the other hand, Dean looks like he's ready to pounce, his wide eyes darting between Cas' lips and throat, his grip still solid and tense on Cas' palm.

He doesn't know what to make of it. There's no additional clues for him to piece together, no indication of what Dean's about to do, if anything.

 _Dean in the Observatory with the Candlestick_ , his brain adds unhelpfully. If only it were that easy.

Then Dean takes his hand off Cas' and returns it to the steering wheel. He feels a pang of regret and sadness until he realizes that Dean is pulling over to the side of the road, where there's a small gravel clearing just visible with the headlights.

So, either Dean has something to say that can't be said while he's driving, or he's going to kill Cas and bury his body in the woods. Fantastic.

Dean puts the Impala in park and turns off the headlights. It's so dark that the light from the dashboard barely cuts through it, only partially highlighting the contours of Dean's face. Lord almighty, he is beautiful. Cas can barely stand to look at him without desire pooling in his gut. It worries him in a vain, self-conscious kind of way – Dean is so much more attractive than Cas, he could easily do better if he wanted to. He hopes that Dean isn't so broken that he's settling for someone less attractive. He hopes, however insufficient the evidence may be, that Dean might actually find him good looking, too.

It's confusing, because Dean is so vocal about praising the people he loves. The way he speaks about Charlie and Jo, even Bobby and Ellen and Sam, is so full of adoration that Cas knows Dean is capable is giving compliments. The only time that Cas can recall hearing a direct compliment from Dean was the morning after his drunk visit to the cemetery. He had called Cas a 'hot guy' and that was about it.

Falling in love with Dean is not the wisest thing he's ever done.

“Cas, I...ah, shit. I'm not great with words, sorry.”

“It's okay, Dean. Take your time.”

Dean huffs. It's a weak, halfhearted attempt at a laugh, but there's no smile on his face. “I know I've been...difficult, I guess. I really suck at this kinda stuff and I don't know how to phrase things so they sound right.”

Cas wonders what Dean could possibly have to say that needs to be worded so carefully that he's afraid to say it. He must be trying to let Cas down easy without hurting his feelings or making the trip uncomfortable. It's the only scenario that makes sense, the only thing Dean would have to word correctly so as not to break Cas' heart.

He braces himself for the worst, but the sting of tears welling up in his eyes betrays him. Thank goodness it's too dark to see.

“Can I...can I show you, instead?” Dean said, his hand finding Cas' shoulder easily in the dark, fingertips tracing the seam of the cotton t-shirt.

Cas has no idea what that means, but hope bubbles up and rises above the suffocating dread. “What do you mean?”

“I mean...can I kiss you, Cas?”

“Of course. You don't have to ask, Dean, you should know that by now.”

Dean nods, and hopefully it's in understanding of what Cas reminded him of. Dean shouldn't be so afraid to kiss him at this point. He shouldn't be scared that Cas would reject him or not want to be touched.

He inches closer, slowly in the dark, his hand gliding from Cas' shoulder to the back his neck. Dean's fingers pinch the soft hair there, sending shivers up and down Cas' spine. Then Dean is pressed up against him, his other hand landing on Cas' thigh, warm and weighty. His thumb presses into the muscular flesh just hard enough to send a bolt of want and anticipation to Cas' groin, causing him to gasp.

Dean's mouth covers his just as he does so, consuming the gasp with a soft, open kiss. Dean's bottom lip is still wet from being worried in his mouth, moving seamlessly over Cas' as he coaxes his lips open further, Dean's tongue sweeping lightly over his.

It's remarkable how many types of kisses they've shared, from simple and sweet to obscenely wet and hungry, each with a different but clear intention. This is different, there's a message written in this kiss for Cas to discover, something Dean is afraid to explain with spoken words. Cas tries to focus on what the hidden message may be, but he's too distracted by how splendid it feels to be touched and kissed by him.

Dean intensifies the press of his lips and tongue, widening their mouths as much as he can, rocking his tongue against Cas' in a way that makes him rethink the definition of ravenous. Dean's hand slides further up Cas' thigh until his thumb is stroking his erection through the fabric of his sweatpants. It shocks a moan out of Cas and his hips instinctively jerk forward, searching for friction. Dean pulls back slightly, sucking Cas' tongue into his mouth, then releases it gently with a nip at Cas' lips.

“Dean,” Cas pants, trying to recover from the dizzying way their mouths worked together, “what are you saying?”

Dean looks like he's about to explain, his dark silhouette disheartened. He leans forward and presses his forehead against Cas', taking a deep breath.

He remains silent as the hand on Cas' thigh creeps higher, sliding underneath the shirt and trailing across Cas' skin. Dean's other hand, still on Cas' neck, drops down and clutches at the bottom of Cas' shirt, pulling it upwards and off. Cas cooperates, lifting his arms and allowing Dean to take his shirt off, tossing it to the side. Dean reaches for the waistband of Cas' sweatpants, hooking his fingers around the hem and tugging them down.

For a moment, Cas is lost in his own desire, until he realizes where this is likely headed. He stops, one hand clutching at Dean's. “Dean,” he repeats, still breathless, “talk to me.”

“I want you,” he says, his voice hushed and small, hopeful but afraid. Cas knows the feeling, the fear that he'll put himself out there only to be stopped too soon, left embarrassed and wanting more. But that's not what's happening, Dean wants Cas as much as Cas wants Dean, and now it's clear.

“Okay,” Cas answers. He's rarely at a loss for words, but his entire body is humming with nervous anticipation and he can't think of anything else to say.

Dean pulls at Cas' sweatpants once more, taking them off and tossing them by the shirt. Cas is about to point out that Dean is still fully dressed, but before he can, Dean sits back and strips with nimble efficiency until he's completely naked.

“We should get in the back,” Dean suggests, palming his own erection, “more room.”

Cas crawls over the bench seat first, and Dean takes the opportunity to kiss and pinch Cas' ass when it's up in the air as he hauls himself over. Dean follows, straddling Cas' hips and thighs, kissing him again like he's starving for it. Dean breaks away for a moment to reach back over the seat, fishing through his jean pockets. Cas playfully spanks Dean's ass in revenge.

Dean turns back with a smirk and a condom, and thank the Lord because Cas was too heated and horny to remember protection.

He hands the condom over to Cas, and just as he's tearing the foil packet open, he pauses. He thinks about Dean, and how the first time they met he'd been using sex as a way to punish himself. Cas wants Dean fully in the moment with him, not remembering past loves or letting his mind wander. He wants this experience to mean something more, to give them both something new to cling to. He wants to give something to Dean that apparently no one else has given him before.

Cas presses his hand to Dean's chest, feeling his heart race against his palm. “Dean, I want you to fuck me.”

Dean stills, his lips parting slightly in surprise. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” he confirms, then adds “please.”

Cas watches as Dean's throat flexes around a nervous gulp, his fingers trembling as he takes the foil packet from Cas' hands and finishes opening it. He looks so helpless, and Cas wonders if Dean knows he doesn't have to do this if he doesn't want to.

“Only if you want to, Dean,” Cas assures, kissing Dean's stomach and chest, “we can do whatever you want.”

“No, I want to,” Dean admits, rolling the condom down over his cock. Cas grabs Dean's hips and guides him carefully to move over so they can switch positions, Dean sitting on the bench seat with Cas straddling him now.

Cas traces Dean's lips with the tip of his finger until Dean opens up, slipping two fingers into his mouth and instructing Dean to suck. He does, and it feels absolutely glorious. Those perfect lips are like velvet against the rough skin of his hands, his tongue curling expertly around each finger, sucking them down until Cas is touching the back of Dean's throat.

He pulls his spit slick fingers out of Dean's mouth reluctantly, only doing so because he knows what they're about to do is going to feel a million times better. He reaches behind himself and starts working himself open, first with a single finger then quickly advancing to two. The initial stretch burns until he forces himself to relax, the thought of Dean being inside him keeping him focused. Dean is panting, gripping Cas' hips painfully tight as he watches Cas finger himself, shaking with anticipation.

It's been a while since the last time Cas did this, but he knows his body well enough that it will feel better when Dean's the one stretching him open. He adjusts his legs so that his knees are spread wide, their torsos flush together, then says, “I'm ready.”

Dean takes another deep breath and closes his eyes, then grips his cock and lines it up into position. He still has one hand on Cas' hip, and when Cas starts to push back to ease himself down onto Dean, Dean stops him.

“Wait,” he breathes, a needy whisper. “I don't want to hurt you.”

“You won't,” Cas promises, pressing his lips against Dean's for another kiss, then trailing a line of kisses down his neck. Dean nods, slightly lifting his hips as Cas pushes down.

Dean is inside him, barely halfway when Cas gasps at the sharp burn, his stretched rim aching and protesting from going too fast. Dean looks worried, one hand caressing Cas' side, and he opens his mouth to say something but Cas hushes him.

“It's okay,” Cas says, the pleasure overtaking the pain as he sinks lower. Dean moans, staring lustfully at the place where their bodies meet, watching himself disappear inside Cas like it's the first time he's ever seen such a thing. Once Cas is all the way down, his ass pressed firmly against the top of Dean's thighs, he wraps an arm behind Dean's neck across his shoulders and starts to move.

It's small movements at first, Cas still adjusting to the fullness and the sweet drag of his rim up and down Dean's cock. He can feel Dean's thigh muscles flex, like it's taking all of his willpower not to buck his hips up into him, like he's dying to move and thrust and fuck. Dean's hands rake down Cas' back then settle again on his hips, helping Cas by lifting him up and pushing him back down rather than moving himself. He's still afraid he'll hurt Cas despite the lurid moans filling the car.

“Dean, it's okay,” Cas repeats, breathless between moans, slowing his rhythm so Dean will understand him, “you can fuck me.”

Dean's grip tightens on Cas' hips, his head falling back against the seat as his plush lips fall open, deep whimpers escaping though them. Dean's feet shift on the floor, searching for something to push against, and then he's fucking up into Cas with everything he's got. He's gone, lost to the overwhelming need to chase the pleasure, the slap of their flesh colliding so loud it's shockingly obscene. Cas buries his face in the tender place between Dean's neck and shoulder, lewdly crying out with every thrust that hits the sweet spot. Cas can feel his orgasm building as his dick rubs against Dean's stomach, caught between their bodies, and then he's coming untouched all over the both of them. He bites down on a thick cord of muscle in Dean's shoulder as he comes, tasting the salt and sweat of his freckled flesh.

“Oh Jesus, shit,” Dean breathes, wrapping his arms around Cas' back and rutting up into him even harder. “Fuck, kiss me.”

Cas is still riding the aftershocks of his intense orgasm, each pound at his prostate prolonging the sensation. It's so overwhelmingly good that he's barely conscious of what Dean is begging for, his lips searching Cas'. Cas crushes their mouths together, and it's desperate and uncoordinated but so full of need and fear that it breaks Cas' heart. “I love you,” Cas pants against Dean's mouth, “I love you.”

Dean comes, his thrusting stutters and slows until it eventually stops, arms still around Cas and not letting go. Cas lets himself be held, melting against Dean's chest, lulled by the thudding of Dean's heart.

They're panting against each other, basking in the blissful afterglow, not caring about the fogged windows or the sweat cooling on their skin. Dean trails gentle fingers over the plane of Cas' back, humming a tune that he doesn't recognize, and plants tender little kisses on Cas' temple. After a few minutes, Cas sits up and achingly pulls himself off of Dean, collapsing beside him on the seat.

Dean holds his hand but looks away, still humming, and Cas can't help but think that Dean looks like he's feeling guilty for something.

“That was great,” Cas says, trying to shake Dean out of his mood.

“Did I hurt you?”

“No, Dean. It was good, really.”

Dean seems to accept that with a guarded smile, then peels the condom from his softened cock and ties it closed. He grabs his shirt from the front seat and wipes up the mess on their bodies. “I've never done that before.”

“What?”

“I've never...uh, I've always been the one getting fucked. I've been with girls obviously, but whenever I've been with guys, they always just assumed I'd bottom. Didn't exactly tell them otherwise.”

Cas ponders that for a moment, and though he already suspected that was the case, it was still strange to hear. Cas hasn't been with many men, but no one ever just assumed which position he'd take. Dean is always so eager to make other people happy, so willing to give whatever someone wants to take, that in all this time he never got to experience this until now.

He doesn't want to spoil the moment by going any deeper with that subject, so instead he asks, “What were you humming just now?”

Dean blushes and looks away again, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “A Zeppelin song.”

Cas laughs. “Yeah, I figured that much. It sounded lovely.”

“It reminds me of you. I'll play it so you can hear it, but you have to promise not to make fun of me, okay?” The look on Dean's face is so sincere that all Cas can do is nod and squeeze his hand.

“I promise.”

It takes them a while, but they finally get dressed again and crawl back into the front seat. Cas opens the door and steps out, shivering beneath the moonlight as he stretches his limbs and walks a few laps around the car. Dean is less enthusiastic about stretching, so he just steps out for a minute and leans against the car, lighting a cigarette.

Cas gets back inside the Impala, too cold to stay outside any longer, and turns up the heat. He thumbs through Dean's collection of tapes, but he has no idea what he's looking for. Dean is humming the song again, very quietly, and Cas wonders if Dean thinks he's unheard.

When Dean finishes his smoke and takes his place behind the wheel, he pauses for a moment after looking at the tapes. He glances at Cas, then back at the tapes, and plucks one out of the box. “Don't forget, you promised not to make fun of me.”

“You said this song reminds you of me, right? I wouldn't make fun of that.”

“You say that now,” Dean jokes, putting the tape in and adjusting the volume knob.

Familiar Zeppelin instrumentals play out of the speakers, a slower tune that doesn't quite match what Dean had been humming. He listens to the words, and doesn't get what the initial lyrics are supposed to mean. It's not until the chorus comes along that Cas recognizes the melody.

_Little drops of rain, whisper of the pain_

_Tears of loves lost in the days gone by_

_My love is strong_

_With you there is no wrong_

_Together we shall go until we die_

_My, my, my_

When Cas turns to look at Dean, his eyes are closed. He's hanging his head, his lashes smooth over his cheekbones, lost in thought. Cas doesn't know what to say, but the song might be the closest thing to a confession that he'll ever get. “Thank you.”

Dean opens his eyes and raises a brow, then smiles. “How did you know?”

“How did I know what?”

“The name of the song. Have you heard it before?”

Cas is often confused by Dean, but now it's just getting ridiculous. “No, I haven't. What is the name of the song?”

Dean laughs, then ejects the tape from the stereo and drops it back in the box. “The song is called Thank You. I thought you were saying the title.”

“Oh.”

Dean fishes around the box for another, selecting one that is, blessedly, not another Zeppelin tape. Neither of them say anything else for a while once they're back on the road, listening to the music on low and watching the little yellow strips of paint on the pavement fly by the car.

Cas told Dean that he loved him, and for all he knows, Dean is pretending like it didn't happen. Sure, it had been in the heat of the moment, his inhibitions weakened by the desperation in Dean's voice and the waves of orgasmic aftershocks still coursing through him. But he meant it – oh, God, how he meant it. He wants to bring it up, he wants to ask Dean if he heard him or if he's just politely declining to reply in kind.

He really should let it go and just wait for Dean to be ready to say it on his own, assuming that time will ever come or that Dean even loves him. But he looks so unsettled, like there's a war raging in his mind and he can't pick a side to fight for, so the least Cas can do is let him know it's okay not to answer.

“You don't have to say it back, Dean.”

Dean knows exactly what Cas is talking about. Cas can tell by the mixed look of understanding and shame that mars the beautiful features of his face. Dean nods and offers Cas an awkward smile, taking Cas' hand in his and interlacing their fingers. He lifts their hands and plants a kiss on Cas' knuckles.

The rest of the ride to Elko is silent.

* * * * *

Their night in the motel was uneventful. They had a single bed but didn't have sex, both still too worn out from their first time in the car. Dean fell asleep with Cas' hand in his hair, his fingernails gently scraping over Dean's scalp to keep him calm and relaxed.

Dean slept surprisingly well. Cas barely slept at all.

* * * * * 

“When we find your brother, who will you introduce me as?”

Dean nearly chokes on his soda, dropping the bottle of Coke back in the cup holder and coughing. “What?”

“I imagine your brother will want to know who I am, so I'm asking what you plan on telling him.”

Dean huffs out a long exhale, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. It's another habit of Dean's that Cas has picked up on. “Honestly, I don't know. I didn't really think about it.”

The sun is blindingly bright on the horizon, and the visor is doing little to shield Cas' eyes. He squints and takes a sip of his coffee, exhausted. “It's up to you.”

“He doesn't know,” Dean starts to explain, shrugging his shoulders, “I mean, I never told him that I'm into guys, and telling him that I have a boyfriend right after he finds out dad's dead might not be the best timing.”

“I understand,” Cas says, closing his eyes for a moment of respite from the sun.

Dean shakes his head, sitting up straighter in his seat. “Really? 'Cause I swear I'm not ashamed of you or anything. It just seems like...not the right time and place, I guess? He might not take me seriously if I pop that kinda news on him at the same time.”

Cas sighs. “Yes, really. I understand. You're welcome to introduce me as whoever you wish.”

“Or...” Dean pauses, rolling something around in his mind, “we could just act normally, you know, and let him come to his own conclusion. It doesn't have to be a secret, and if he asks, we can be honest. I just don't want to make it a big deal. Telling him about dad is kinda the whole point of this trip, I don't want to overshadow that.”

He didn't want to say so, but pretending to be Dean's friend would have made Cas feel a little insecure and more closeted than he has been in a long time. Cas completely understands though, and likes Dean's suggestion.

“I think that's a good idea,” Cas agrees, tilting the rest of the coffee into his mouth and gulping it down. He's dead on his feet, or in this case, dead on his ass. He tried so hard to fall asleep but couldn't, wrestling between regret and fear, wondering how badly he messed things up by telling Dean he loved him. He meant what he said, there's no pressure for Dean to say it back, but he'd be lying if he said it didn't break his heart.

On the bright side, Dean doesn't look as nervous anymore. If anything, he's excited. There's a little light flickering in his eyes that hadn't been there before, a glimmer of hope daring to peak out beyond the dread to keep him from backing out. There's nothing Cas wants more than for this to go well, for Dean to feel better after seeing his brother and leaving with a sense of accomplishment.

Maybe it will be enough to mend some the lesser tears in his heart. Maybe he'll be capable of loving Cas as much as Cas loves him.

Unfortunately, he knows the more likely scenario will be that Sam is reluctant to hear Dean out, or that Sam won't care that their father has passed. Cas doesn't want to think about what it would do to Dean if Sam outright tells him to leave, or worse, blames Dean for their father's death.

Cas doesn't know very much about Sam, but from what everyone has told him, Sam is capable of crushing Dean's soul more than it already is. Sam wields so much power over Dean's happiness, and it makes Cas wonder why that is. He doesn't know what they went through as children other than what others have speculated, other than what Dean may have mentioned about motels and cabins, but it must have been significant enough to bond them so closely together.

Cas loves his brother, but when Gabriel left, it didn't break him.

“What do you think you're going to say when you see him?”

Dean shrugs. “No idea. I think I'm just gonna wing it. I guess it depends on how he reacts to seeing me, though, right?”

“I'm sure he'll be happy to see you.”

“You think so? I don't know, seems like I might be expecting too much if I hope for anything less than a fight. He'll probably be a snarky little bitch about it.”

Cas laughs, trying to picture that. Dean smiles. He's right to be scared, even to expect a fight, but it's not ruining his good mood.

Dean's phone rings. He glances down at it, and mutters _oh shit_ when he sees the Unknown Number. They're driving through heavy traffic, so Dean tells Cas to answer the phone and turn on the speaker. “Whoever it is, they've been calling me a lot lately,” he explains. Cas answers.

“Hello?”

“ _....Dean Winchester?_ ” It's a woman's voice, but soft and youthful enough to still be a teenager.

“Speaking.”

“ _Do you know a Sam Winchester_?” Dean pauses, and Cas can see the scenarios playing out in Dean's mind, all the possible ways this conversation could go, and none of them good. Dean looks up at Cas, eyes wide and scared.

“He's my brother. What's this about?”

“ _My name is Jessica...um, Sam gave me this number to call, in case anything ever happened to him._ ”

Dean looks like he's about to burst at the seams, shaking and grinding his teeth, a breath hitching in his lungs. Cas' chest aches in sympathy, unsure of what to do.

“Don't leave me hanging, sweetheart,” he jokes, masking the shakiness of his voice.

“ _I'm sorry, I don't know if I should have called you, I've been trying to reach you for a while and I was starting to think you'd never answer_ -”

“Please tell us how Sam is doing,” Cas interrupts, not wanting to be rude but unable to stand the delay any longer.

“ _He's okay, I mean he's kinda okay. He's not dead or anything. Um...this would be a lot easier to explain in person, it's a long story. Do you live nearby? Sam never mentioned having any family..._ ”

“You go to Stanford with Sam, correct?” Cas asks, speaking for Dean. “We can meet up with you in a couple of hours, alright? Tell us where to find you.”

“ _Oh! Okay, I work at the CoHo, the coffee house here on campus. Do you know where that is? I'll be here all day_.”

“We'll find it, thank you. Will you be wearing a name tag?”

“ _Yep, and if it helps, I have curly blonde hair. A lot of it_.”

“Understood, Jessica. We'll see you soon.” Cas hangs up the phone and sets it on the seat, then rests a hand on Dean's shoulder.

Dean looks absolutely miserable, and Cas knows there's nothing he can say to make it better, at least not until after they speak with Jessica.

“She said he's okay, Dean,” Cas reminds him gently, trying to rub some of the stress out of his shoulder.

“Then why would she be calling, Cas? 'Kinda okay' is different than regular okay. Fuck, I don't know what the hell I expected coming all the way out here.”

Cas doesn't either. Maybe coming along on this intensely personal road trip with Dean wasn't such a great idea.

There's no turning back now, so he gives Dean his best comforting smile and waits for him to smile back.

He doesn't.  


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has drug use/references and some potentially disturbing descriptions about...well, drug use and what it can do. So, warning!

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Dean mutters, pulling into the only available parking space he could find. There’s barely enough room for Baby to squeeze in, and if he’s lucky, maybe enough room to actually open the damn door and get out.

Fun fact – apparently Stanford has one of the largest university campuses in the world, with over seven hundred buildings and almost fifty miles of roads, so it’s no fucking surprise that it took two guys with no intimate knowledge of the campus layout nearly an hour to find the coffee house where Jessica works. And, despite there being twenty thousand or so parking spaces, it still doesn’t guarantee actually finding a place to park. Go figure.

It wouldn’t have been so bad if there weren’t a ridiculous number of pedestrians walking and biking around, many with dark, floppy mops of hair, lanky arms, or scowling bitch faces that warranted a second glance. Dean couldn’t _not_ look at every single face that passed by on the off-chance one of them might be his little brother.

Another fun fact – there are over eighteen thousand unique faces at Stanford that all somehow look like they could be Sam.

So when Dean and Cas achingly stumble out of the Impala an hour late, sucking in their midsections as best they can to avoid touching the neighboring vehicles, it’s not really fair to blame them. It’s Stanford’s fault as far as Dean is concerned, and Cas isn’t exactly in the mood to debate it. In fact, Cas is sporting a bitch face that could easily rival Sam’s bitchiest bitch face ever, and Dean knows better than to touch that with a thirty-two foot pole.

He’ll talk to Cas about whatever is bothering him later. Right now, Dean can’t think about anything except his brother. He can’t even breathe without tasting Sam in the air, and that’s probably something he should see a professional about. He’s so focused on the task at hand that it may or may not border on neurotic.

They’re making their way across the pavement toward the coffee house when Dean thinks he sees Jessica. She’s sitting at one of the tables outside, in the middle of a pavilion styled seating area shaded by large, leafy trees and decorative stone work. She’s wearing what looks like a student employee uniform and an apron, and the hair she described as curly and blonde is pulled up in a loose ponytail. She wasn’t kidding about that, at least.

Dean approaches her cautiously, afraid he’s got the wrong girl until he sees her name tag. _Jess_ , it says, and that’s good enough for him. “Jessica? I’m Dean.”

He slowly extends his hand toward her as she looks up at him, her eyes widening and brightening with recognition. She takes hand and gives him the most confident handshake he’s ever felt, which is significant considering he knows the Harvelles. Dean is already unsurprised that Sam would trust this girl with his phone number.

“Dean!” She chirps, standing and pulling him into a hug after shaking his hand. “It’s so good to finally meet you. I’ve heard so much about you,” She explains, her expression shifting to confusing when she lays eyes on Cas. “Are you related to Sam as well?”

“No, just a family friend,” Cas says, smiling, sitting across from her at the table. Dean takes a seat as well, glancing around the area for any indication of his brother. He knows better than to assume Sam would be here too, but it’s a habit. He’s always had to keep an eye for Sam, and being in the same state again has managed to reignite that need; muscle memory made it worse.

“I don’t mean to cut the meet-and-greet short, but if you could put me out of my misery and tell me what’s going on, I’d really appreciate it,” Dean starts, leaning forward and crossing his arms on the table. “Been a long trip and I got some important news I need to deliver to Sammy.”

“Oh, right, of course,” Jess says, still smiling. It’s a good thing, he thinks, because if anything truly terrible had happened to Sam, she probably wouldn’t be in such a good mood. “I called you because I’ve been really worried about Sam’s behavior. I think he’s been involved in some illegal activities and he wouldn’t listen when I asked him to stop. It…caused the end of our relationship, and since then I haven’t been able to keep track of him.”

“Uh…” Dean pauses, trying to collect his thoughts. Are they talking about the same Sam? The same bratty little kid that made a big fuss every time Dean had to swipe food or toiletries from the store? The wannabe lawyer that made of point of always being right, of always following the letter of the law?

Doesn’t seem likely. Dean’s first clue that this chick might be lying is her claim that she and Sam dated. He’s no matchmaker, but Jessica is clearly way out of his little brother’s league.

Then Cas jumps to the rescue, like always, and Dean has to bite back his irritation. “Why don’t you start from the beginning, Jessica? It sounds like there’s more to the story.”

“Sure,” she chimes, giving a Cas a lingering look that doesn’t sit well with Dean. “We started dating just over a year ago. We were good friends before that, you know, in a lot of the same classes. He was a real straight arrow, a hard worker; I admired a lot about him.”

Yeah, that sounds more like the bookworm brother he remembers.

“But last semester, he took an elective class in creative writing and met Ruby. They really clicked and started hanging out outside of class. I tried not to be jealous, I didn’t want to be one of _those_ girlfriends, but then he started disappearing for days at a time. He’d show up to class late and with a hangover, or sometimes not at all.”

Dean has to fight the overwhelming urge to tell this bitch how wrong she is, because there is no way in hell that Sam would ever get drunk. Not after all the shit he said, not after years and years of begging John to stop and snapping at Dean whenever he touched the stuff.

“What do you think made him start drinking?” Dean asks through clenched teeth, his fingers curling into fists.

Jessica gives him a long, pondering look. She’s staring into him as if she can find the answer in his eyes, and it’s creeping him out. She takes a deep breath in through her nose and adjusts her posture.

“I don’t know very much about Sam’s life, he didn’t like to talk about it, but he did talk a lot about you, Dean. Sam never talked about having a family to go home to on holidays like most people here do. He only told me a few things about his childhood. He had a very difficult time dealing with some of those things. To be honest, I think he was searching for something to numb the pain from the moment he arrived here.”

Dean didn’t realize he was shaking until Cas put a firm hand on his arm to steady him. He had no fucking idea what he was supposed to say to that, other than Sam would never start drinking and anything she says to the contrary has to be lie. 

“What exactly did he tell you?” Dean demanded, losing his patience.

“Like I said, not very much. He said something about your father being crazy, claiming to have invented the question mark and things like that. I think Sam said your father even accused chestnuts of being lazy,” Jess explains, her tone soft and empathetic. Her delivery of that obvious joke was so smooth and convincing that Dean’s not sure if she was joking at all.

He looks at Cas for a moment, lifting his eyebrow, but Cas just shrugs with a confused look on his face. He turns back to Jessica. “Are you serious?”

“Well, yeah. Why, was that too personal or something?”

Dean starts laughing. “Did he also tell you that our mother was a French prostitute named Chloe?”

Jessica looks confused by Dean’s laughter, exchanging a questioning glance with Cas. “Actually, yes.”

Dean is laughing so hard he can barely breathe, tears streaming down his cheeks. He gets a slap in on the table for good measure, doubled over as much as a person can be while sitting down. Neither Cas nor Jess can see the beauty of the joke right in front of them.

“You guys,” Dean pants, catching his breath between spurts of laughter, “really? That’s straight from the Austin Powers movies! Dr. Evil? Luge lessons, summers in Rangoon?”

The hurt look on Jessica’s face kills the mood. It’s subtle, but Dean can see her small chin trembling like she’s holding back a well of tears. “That was…from a movie? He quoted a comedy?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, calming down and trying not to make fun of her apparently gullible personality. “Austin Powers. There’s this monologue where the bad guy describes his really weird childhood.”

“Oh,” she says, and nothing more.

There’s a painful minute of silence until Cas rescues them again, master of words that he is, saying, “Could you tell us what you meant about Sam’s illegal activities? Unless you meant the underage drinking.”

Jessica sighs, shaking away the tears and recomposing herself. “Not the drinking, no. I obviously don’t know as much about you or Sam as I thought, but I still meant what I said. He’s a really good guy, but you can tell he’s haunted by something. He was always looking for something to distract him from himself. First it was the books - he was always studying or reading. Sam was never content to just… _be_.”

Dean may not believe that a Sam that drinks exists, but he sure as hell knows what Jessica is talking about. Sam ran to books the way their dad ran to whiskey; fervently and without fail. When Dean hooked up with countless faces to feel less alone, Sam dove headfirst into a novel and let himself get lost in the pages. When Dean started smoking to drown out the constant noise in his skull, Sam stayed later and later after school to work on homework.

Dean’s duffel was full of his essentials, with things like clothes and shaving cream and a few pieces of memorabilia. Sam’s was annoyingly heavy with books and journals, even a notebook dedicated to all the awards he’d ever received.

He somehow missed it, the way that Sam couldn’t live without his stories or his research. Was it always that obvious? Did Sam have that same damning Winchester trait that predestined him to a life of clinging addiction? Had he always been an addict, consuming the pages of novels to numb the bedlam of their life?

It makes Dean feel sick, shaken to his core. All this time, he had imagined Sam as being free. Not just since he left for Stanford, but even as kids. He was the good one, the one with a real chance at life. Now Dean can see the strings that have always been tethered to Sam’s arms and legs, the ones jerking him along through adolescence and awkwardly into adulthood like a marionette, feeding him a line of steady fiction to help him through the darkness.

He can see it now. He can see Sam arriving at Stanford, alone for the first time in his life, exposed to a plethora of new and interesting things that he could easily use to replace his unhealthy attachment to books. It hurts, oh fuck does it hurt, but he can see it.

Jessica continues, “I didn’t know it at first, but Ruby has a reputation on campus. She’s a drug user, and I think that’s what Sam’s been up to. I don’t know what kind, I couldn’t even tell you if I had seen it myself, but I think he’s been using whatever Ruby uses. He moved out of his dorm over the Christmas break between semesters, and I heard he’s been staying at her place.”

There are a million things Dean could say, but he goes with, “Was Sam ever happy?”

Jessica nods, “When he talked about you, Dean. You’re his hero.”

He wants to laugh, he wants to tell her that she’s got it all wrong and it was probably just an extension of his dumb Austin Powers trick, but he doesn’t. After his painful revelation, Dean’s not even sure he can qualify how close they had been, the underlying friendship beneath their status as brothers, as anything more than an unhealthy coping mechanism. He doesn’t want it to be that - he doesn’t want it to be that at all.

Then a hand lands on his back, warm and reassuring. Cas is careful not to be overly affectionate in front of Jessica, and part of Dean just wants to say _fuck it_ and pull him into a tight hug, but he can’t. He’s afraid that if he moves more than necessary, he might spontaneously combust.

“I’ve been calling you because Sam’s grades are dropping, and the last time I saw him…he didn’t look so good. He said to call your number only if there was an emergency or if he died, so I’m sorry if I overstepped a boundary by calling, but this seems like an emergency to me,” she says, her shoulders slumping.

When Dean doesn’t reply, Cas speaks up. “Thank you, Jessica. Do you know where we can find Sam?”

She reaches into the small purse beside her on the seat, pulling out a piece of paper and a pen. She writes an address down and pushes the paper toward Dean. He doesn’t reach out to grab it, so after a moment, she pushes it towards Cas with an understanding smile.

“Dean, I’m really sorry. I know this can’t be easy to hear, but I really am glad to finally meet you. I’m not dating Sam anymore, but he spoke about you so much that I felt like I already knew you,” Jessica says, brushing her fingers along Dean’s wrist, “please let me know what you two find out, okay? I don’t want to be nosey about it, but I worry about Sam every day.”

“We will. Thank you so much for this,” Cas replies, pinching the paper with Ruby’s address between his fingers before tucking it into his pocket.

They rise from the table, and Jessica quickly circles it so she can give Dean a hug. He accepts it, even if it makes him feel worse about the whole situation, because Jessica seems like a real sweet girl - too sweet to get caught up in the Winchester drain that seems to suck everyone else down with them.

Cas keeps one hand on Dean’s back, guiding him with a gentle push toward the Impala. Dean drops into his seat, putting both hands on the wheel, but despite his best efforts he can’t seem to convince his hands to turn the key and start the damn car.

Instead, Dean drops his head to the wheel as well and huffs.

“Are you alright?”

No. No he’s not. If he were, he’d be able to move his lips and say as much, but he can’t. He just needs a few minutes to let everything sink in. Cas, ever the example of perfection, just rubs Dean’s back and lets him hum Metallica until he’s regained control of his body.

“Wish we had a fucking GPS,” Dean complains, looking at the address.

“You know, I’m kind of hungry. I think it would be a good idea to get something to eat, and think about our next plan of action. I don’t mean to be blunt, but I think we need to approach this differently now that we know…what we know. And I have GPS on my phone, remember?”

Cas is speaking to him in that same weird tone that Dean has grown oddly used to. It’s a combination of pity and caution, like he’s trying to calm a damn toddler or something. Since when did everyone start talking to him that way?

“We can eat afterwards,” Dean insists, feeling uncomfortable about Cas’ tone and wondering what the hell happened to his masculinity, “I just want to get this over with, okay?”

“Yeah,” Cas says, looking utterly defeated and slumping back in his seat.

Dean feels bad, he really does. He doesn’t want to hurt Cas’ feelings, but Christ. This is the whole reason why they’re here, they’re so close and they have an actual address where Sam is living, but Cas just wants to slow things down and assess their feelings. He’s tempted to lean over and ask, _“And how does that make you feel, Castiel?”_ But he’s not THAT much of a dick.

Plus, Cas doesn’t deserve that. He’s been great, and it wouldn’t be fair to mock him.

Cas enters the address in his phone and directs Dean through the traffic. Dean hates big cities like this, he hates the clogged roads and the assholes staring at their cellphones and cutting him off. It’s a small perk about Lawrence that he’s never fully appreciated until now. He can drive around without worrying someone is going to crash into his Baby.

They’re driving for maybe twenty minutes before they reach an apartment complex. It’s not what Dean had been expecting at all, nothing like what he guessed a couple of college kids could afford on grant money or a part time job. It’s nice, really nice, and he wouldn’t be surprised if Sam and this Ruby chick were the only college brats living there.

It almost reminds Dean of a Spanish soap opera type apartment. It’s got that traditional Mexican architecture - no idea what it’s actually called - but has those fancy little archways and Earth-colored paints that he knows are common in California. There’s even a fountain out front and manicured pathways with overly-green grass and a gated pool.

Either Ruby is rich, or Sam’s doing more illegal shit than Jessica realized.

He parks in an open, uncovered space near the main entrance, then double checks the apartment number on the slip of paper. It’s number 1035, a ground floor apartment, and according to the map in front of the office, it’s just a few buildings away.

“Do you know what you’re going to say?” Cas asks, closing the door to the Impala and shoving his phone into his pocket.

“No idea,” Dean mumbles, squinting against the harsh sunlight, “Fuck, I hate this place.”

Cas quirks an eyebrow at that, but doesn’t ask.

It’s not until they’re actually at Sam’s door that Dean begins to feel the panic rising. His heart kicks around in his chest, his breathing shallows and his damn fingers won’t stop shaking. He keeps telling himself that there’s no reason to be this nervous, no need to worry, because it’s just Sam and he’ll always be _just Sam_ regardless of what he’s been up to since he left.

Right?

There’s a weathered welcome mat in front of the door. Oddly, Dean still doesn’t feel very welcome.

He knocks, and waits. Nothing.

Dean knocks again, this time a little harder. They wait patiently for a couple minutes before concluding that either no one is home, or they’re too out of it to answer the door.

“Maybe this would be a good opportunity to get something to eat and try again later,” Cas suggests, a little more sardonically than Dean can tolerate. Ever since they fucked in the car, Cas has been kind of bitchy and Dean hasn’t dealt with it all that well. He knows why Cas is upset, and he deserves to be, but there is seriously only so much Dean can handle at one fucking time.

“Or maybe it’s a good opportunity to check the place out,” Dean bites back, not looking in Cas’ direction to see his reaction. He reaches into his back pocket for his lock-pick kit, and when he pulls it out and gets to work, Cas makes a strange noise.

“ _Dean_ ,” Cas hisses, looking around, “you can’t be serious.”

When Dean finishes unlocking the door, he turns the handle and gives Cas a look that says _as a motherfucking heart attack_.

“This is making me extremely uncomfortable,” Cas announces, stepping back.

“So go wait in the car.”

“You’re really breaking into their apartment, Dean? You know this isn’t a good idea.”

Dean says nothing, but tosses the keys to Cas and shrugs.

A tense moment passes while Cas just stands there, staring at the keys and biting his lips. There’s something he wants to say but isn’t quite able to say it, or maybe he’s just afraid to. It doesn’t matter. Dean is doing this with or without Cas, and at this point, he guesses he’ll get more accomplished without Cas in the way.

“Just go to the car, Cas.”

Cas nods, then turns and walks away.

Dean opens the door, steps in, and closes it quietly behind him.

The first thing Dean notices is that the apartment is disgusting.  Not in the way that old apartments are, with their gross carpet and outdated…everything, but in a literally _dirty_ way. The apartment itself is nice – it has pale tile flooring and granite countertops, stainless steel appliances, and painted walls the color of creamed coffee – but there is trash and food and clothes _everywhere_.

He knows there’s a stereotype for this, how teenagers leave home and feel so liberated that they don’t bother cleaning up after themselves, but this is taking it to a whole new level. Making his way into the living room feels like a game of Minesweeper.

Sam was never this unkempt, ever. Yeah, boys aren’t exactly known for their cleanliness and they didn’t exactly have a mom around to wash behind their ears, but Sam respected himself and their surroundings a hell of a lot more than this. In such small living spaces, it was always easier to just keep things tidy so no one was getting hurt.

They didn’t have a lot of belongings, but even if they did, they wouldn’t have lived like this.

Dean looks around for any sign of life. He pokes his head into the only bedroom, in the bathroom and even in the closets. No one is here, which is a little disappointing, but now he gets to actually snoop around and see what’s what.

The living room looks like it could be nice if it weren’t covered in a thick layer of shit. There’s a long, L-shaped leather couch and a flat screen television, a bookshelf and a few pictures here and there decorating the place. There’s a short brunette in most of the pictures, and if that’s Ruby, then Dean can definitely see why Sam had been swept off his feet.

He wouldn’t necessarily call it an upgrade, because Jessica was pretty damn good looking too, but she had the girl-next-door vibe with all that soft looking blonde hair and wide, friendly ocean eyes. Ruby is the opposite; her dark features are intense, seductive and commanding attention. She has a wild look about her that even Dean might have fallen for, but he never figured Sammy was into that kind of thing. He always went for the sweet and shy girls in high school. Girls just like Jess.

Dean’s phone beeps, causing him to jump and look around for a second before he realized what it was. A text message from Cas.

**Castiel Novak  4:04PM**

**> > I thought the whole point of driving here was to NOT snoop on your brother**

Okay, really? For fuck’s sake. There is seriously no way that Cas just coincidentally says exactly what’s on Dean’s mind right after he thinks it.

**Dean Winchester 4:04PM**

**< < fine. damn mind reader**

Cas is right, though. Dean wants information on Sam and his new life but this is probably the wrong way to go about it.

Well, a few more minutes won’t hurt.

Dean leaves the living room and carefully makes his way down the hall into the bedroom, trying to avoid the old food and piles of trash blanketing the floor. The bedroom is fairly small but slightly more organized than the rest of the apartment. There are clothes and trash all over the place, but as far as Dean can see, no food. It’s a small mercy to his nostrils.

The bedroom is the only place so far that Dean has seen any real evidence of Sam. There are books stacked on one of the nightstands, a few math and science textbooks, and he actually recognizes some of the t-shirts balled up on the floor.

He circles the bed until he’s standing beside the nightstand, his fingers tracing the embossed lettering of _Night_ , by Elie Wiesel. Dean’s never read the book, nor can he tell what it’s about from the cover, but the corners are worn and frayed from overuse. He picks it up, letting his fingertips roll over the folded cracks of the cover. He notices one of the pages is distinctly dog-eared. He flips it open.

There’s a paragraph highlighted, then underlined in pen. The emphasis in which this passage had been singled out seems a bit extreme, but then again Dean doesn’t know what’s normal when it comes to books. He reads it.

_Listen to me, kid. Don’t forget that you are in a concentration camp. In this place, it is every man for himself, and you cannot think of others. Not even your father. In this place, there is no such thing as father, brother, friend. Each of us lives and dies alone. Let me give you good advice: stop giving your ration of bread and soup to your old father. You cannot help him anymore. And you are hurting yourself._

A shallow breath of air gets caught in Dean’s lungs, and he chokes on it. He drops the book, coughing until he can take a deep breath again. He’s never read this book, never even heard of it, yet that single excerpt was enough to remind him of all the reasons why coming here was a bad idea.

What a strange, specific thing for Sam to highlight. How eerily similar to all the things that Sam had said before he left. Isn’t that exactly how he always viewed Dean? As someone foolishly giving their bread and soup to their father, to their own detriment? Yes, that’s exactly what he said. Open a thesaurus, change some of the words, and it’s practically Sam’s goodbye speech.

Did this book give him the idea? Or did he just happen to stumble on it after he’d already left?

This is one good reason why Dean was never a fan of digging into other’s people’s business. You don’t just find what you were looking for; you always end up finding things you never wanted to know.

It seems as though distance did not make Sam’s heart grow fonder. It only solidified his belief that Dean and John were dead weights.

He picks up the book off the floor and tucks it into his jacket, zipping it up in one of the interior pockets. He doesn’t know why he’s taking it. He just is.

Something on the floor catches Dean’s eye.

He bends over and inspects it further. It’s a familiar strip of green sticking out from under the bed, a strap belonging to a duffel bag. He tugs on it, pulling the duffel out and into the open to look it over. Dean never thought he would see it again – Sam’s old bag – with his name scrawled across it with permanent marker in his simple, childhood handwriting.

It’s a strange, powerful contrast to the book Dean found. It’s a piece of the old Sam, _his_ Sam, hidden away beneath his bed, out of the daylight.

Dean unzips the bag and takes a look inside.

There isn’t much. It mostly looks like junk, from paperclips and dried up pens to crumpled scraps of paper and faded receipts. There’s a bent up picture, barely larger than the photos in Dean’s wallet, of Sam and Jessica together. She’s on his back with her arms across his chest, and his arms are wrapped around her thighs, keeping her up. His hair is a little longer than Dean remembers it being, but other than that, he looks the same.

They look happy together. It’s kind of sad.

Dean grabs one of the crumpled lumps of paper and gently straightens it out, flattening it against his knee. It looks like an assignment, because his name and the date are written in the top left corner. There’s no title, but the first few sentences are an interesting comparison between Superman and Jesus – both powerful, with supernatural abilities and not of the Earth, sent here to save us all from certain destruction. It’s actually kind of interesting, but it cuts off halfway down the page and turns into note written between two people.

_call him_

_No_

_why?_

_you know why_

_pussy_

_don’t say that_

_u comin over tonite?_

_Maybe_

_if u do theres some _____ in it for u_

_what?_

_You told me not to say it =)_

Dean can’t know for sure, but he’s got an educated guess that it wasn’t a note written with Jessica.

And, ugh, Sam always did have girly handwriting.

These weird glimpses into Sam’s life haven’t made Dean feel any better. They’ve only served to make him feel worse, even less significant than he already considered himself to be from Sam’s point of view. Jessica said that Sam talked about Dean often and fondly, but the evidence to the contrary is hard to ignore.

It’s a strange thing to re-crumple a crumpled piece of paper, but Dean does it anyway and shoves it back into the bag. He zips the duffel back up and shoves it under the bed.

Dean should probably listen to Cas now and get the hell out of this creepy, gross apartment. He pulls himself up off the floor and heads to the bathroom for a quick piss.

The bathroom is strangely clean, which doesn’t exactly set off any alarm bells, but it does seem pretty strange to have one clean room in the whole disturbingly messy apartment. He does his business and quickly and flushes, mildly surprised that the toilet works without any problems, and decides to take one last quick peek in their medicine cabinet and maybe under the sink.

There are a ridiculous number of pill bottles behind the mirrored cabinet on the wall. Dean only recognizes a couple of the labels, like Roxicet and Xanax, but he sure as hell doesn’t recognize any of the printed names. There are at least eight different names that Dean can see without turning any of the bottles. He does see Ruby’s name on several of them, but they’re all for Tramadol and Dean has no idea what that is.

Under the sink is a completely different story.

He knows what it is the moment he sees it, even though Dean’s never actually see one in person. He’s seen enough movies though to know that when needles and spoons are taped together, there’s really only one reason for it.

He picks up one of the bundles and looks it over, turning it slowly in his hand. The spoon is small and slightly warped, the needle is even smaller and has a tiny amount of dark residue sticking on the inside of it. There’s a pink lighter taped to it as well, but nothing else. There are a bunch of antiseptic wipe packets all over the bottom of the cupboard, some ripped open and dried out, and a handful of blue tourniquets piled loosely like a mound of worms right in the middle of it all.

Lists of drugs run through Dean’s mind. He knows he’s got some kind of drug kit in his hand. He knows a person melts the drug in the spoon with the lighter and then injects themselves with whatever it is, but that’s the extent of his knowledge. He’s never done this before, never seen anyone else do it either.

Cas might know, but Dean’s not really sure he wants the answer. He quickly snaps a picture of it on his phone and puts it back.

Ah, Fuck. What have you gotten yourself into, Sammy?

“Dean?”

Dean’s head snaps up immediately at the sound, and holy shit – Sam is standing there, staring down at him in nothing but sweatpants.

The first thought to flit through his mind is _dear Christ when he did grow another five goddamn feet_ followed quickly by _why the fuck didn’t Cas warn me he was coming?_

“Sam?” Dean breathes, standing quickly and shoving his phone into his pocket. He looks into Sam’s eyes, but they’re unfocused. Actually, now that Dean is standing and getting a better look at him, he can see how wobbly Sam is coupled with a very loose, blank expression on his face.

He’s taller, but he’s thinner too. Skeletal, almost. The sickly pale skin on his face is pulled tight, and there are dark pools beneath his confused, narrowed eyes. This Sam looks nothing like _his_ Sam – it’s a poor mockery of him, like one of those pamphlets with the haunting before and after pictures that warn against drugs, and Dean is staring directly at the _after_.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” Sam says, his speech heavy and slow on his tongue.

Sam is hopped up on something, there’s no doubt about that. Dean’s instincts are screaming at him to protect Sam, to save him from whatever is going on in this hell hole of an apartment, but he honestly doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t even know what to say, standing there awkwardly in Sam’s bathroom while Sam just stares at him, his mouth slightly open and slack.

Dean does the only thing he can do, the only thing that makes sense in this moment. He takes a step forward and pulls his not-so-little brother into a hug.

Sam doesn’t hug back, but he doesn’t fight it, either. He just keeps standing there, taking it, allowing himself to be hugged like he’s doing Dean a favor. Shit, this whole situation is so fucked up, but he can’t seem to let Sam go. He just keeps holding onto him and waiting for something to break the silence.

Mercifully, Dean doesn’t have to wait long.

Sam slumps forward, and at first Dean thinks that he’s finally getting a hug back. He holds onto Sam a little tighter, but then Sam’s legs give out and Dean’s the only thing keeping him from dropping to the floor. This isn’t merciful, this weird and scary and he is definitely not prepared to handle whatever is happening.

There’s a low, barely audible gurgling sound, and then Sam is throwing up.

Even worse is that Sam is suddenly not conscious. He’s vomiting involuntarily, unable to help his body through the process. It’s trapped in his mouth and throat and oh shit – what the hell is Dean is supposed to do? Can Sam breathe?

“Sam!”

Dean’s yelling at his baby brother in a futile attempt to wake him. Sam’s upper body is jerking slightly, his fingers twitching, vomit oozing from between his lips. It’s not so much vomit as it is pure bile, but Dean has no idea if that makes a difference. He drags his brother backward toward the tub, leaning his enormously tall body over the edge so that he’s facing down, gravity helping the contents of his stomach (or lack thereof) out of his system and slowly toward the drain.

“Come on, Sam, talk to me buddy, please,” Dean begs, vigorously rubbing Sam’s bare, overheated back as if it might actually help. Beads of sweat are blooming out of the pores on Sam’s neck and face, sticking his dark hair to his cheeks and forehead. Sam’s body jerks again and he’s throwing up, this time with a little more animation, coughing and spitting after he’s puked into the bathtub.

It’s a good sign, but Sam’s breathing is still ragged and labored. Dean can feel Sam’s heartbeat against his palm and it’s slow, too slow, more like the sluggish droplets of water that drip from a turned off faucet than an actual beating heart. Shit, oh Shit, Sammy’s going to die right here in front of him and Dean is helpless to stop it.

It’s almost as if Dean’s brain went and unplugged itself from the rest of his body. He can’t think, he can’t remember that his phone is in his pocket or that Cas is right outside in the Impala. He’s standing in front of a brick wall, kicking and smacking it with all the force in his shaking body, completely unaware of the door that’s merely several steps to the side.

Dean watches helplessly as Sam dry heaves weakly into the tub, his knuckles blanching as he grips the edge to keep himself upright. He just keeps rubbing Sam’s back, unsure of what else to do, and then panic strikes him like a hammer to his solar plexus.

Dean’s heart is beating so quickly that he can barely breathe, his body shaking so forcefully that it’s fucking with his ability to rub Sam’s back. He barely has a chance to try and catch his breath before he hears that same fucking gurgling sound coming from his brother. Sam has slumped even further, no longer vomiting, but his neck is bent almost unnaturally over the ledge, blocking his airway.

He tries so hard to regain control of breathing, to calm himself down enough to help Sam before he dies right fucking here, but he can’t. He’s slipping into a full blown panic attack. Oh fuck, if there is God out there, now would be an excellent time for a miracle.

Dean grabs onto Sam as best he can and pulls, but Sam barely budges. Dean’s shaking too much and he can’t get a good enough grip. Whatever strength he had has seeped out of his muscles and he’s left with rubber limbs that ache when he moves them. He’s getting dizzy, not enough oxygen is going to his brain, and if he’s going to save his brother before he passes out and they both die, now is his only chance.

He puts himself directly behind Sam, wrapping his arms around Sam’s chest and shoulders, and pushes his feet against the tub for leverage. Dean pulls with all of the strength he can muster, falling backward onto the tile floor with Sam still firmly in his grip.

Something is echoing in his head, a nagging reminder of what to do in this situation. He learned once from a nurse in Omaha to put people in the recovery position when something like this happens. He learned it to use on his dad when the time came, but that was years ago and he never actually had to use it.

Static is blurring Dean’s vision, the edges of his periphery blacking out like a vignette, but he does this final thing in a last ditch effort to keep his baby brother from dying. Dean pushes Sam over on his side, then pulls his head back a bit by his hair to keep his neck and throat open and straight.

Dean’s fingers are tingly and going numb. His own throat is caving in, he can’t breathe - his heart feels cracked like an egg, splitting and seeping into his chest cavity. He tries to speak but ends up biting his tongue.

The last fleeting moments of consciousness are the worst.

Dean’s going to die here in a disgusting apartment in motherfucking California, in a drug filled bathroom beside his overdosing brother. He’s going to die a complete asshole, after spending the day being a bag of dicks to Cas, after snooping around Sam’s place and stealing his depressing book, after wasting the best, and now only, opportunity he had to tell Cas that he loved him.

Cas is probably sitting in the car right now, thinking about what a complete and total loser his boyfriend turned out to be. Cas has no idea how quickly that problem is about to resolve itself.

Dean might die an asshole, but at least he can die as an asshole that loved his brother, if nothing else.

He rolls over onto his side, pressing himself against Sam’s cold, sweaty back. He doesn’t care that it’s gross or if it looks weird, he doesn’t care that Sam won’t even know they ended up dying together. It’s the best Dean can do to go out as a Winchester.

Just before he blacks out, with the thunderous pulse of his racing heartbeat echoing in his ears, Dean remembers the fucking cell phone in his pocket.

* * * * * 

Outside, Cas is getting impatient waiting in the car.

It’s been almost an hour. He’s thumbing through a book he brought along for the road trip, bored of the passages he’s read a million times, when an attractive young woman saunters by the car with a grocery bag in her hand. She’s whispering into her phone, having a heated but quiet argument with someone about something he can’t hear. Cas is about to look back down at the book when he notices she’s heading right for Sam and Ruby’s apartment.

She stops in front of the door, still deeply engrossed in her conversation. Cas pulls out his phone and dials Dean’s number.

No answer.

He calls again, then a third time. By the fifth time Cas calls and gets no answer, he knows something is going on.

Cas turns off the engine and puts the keys in his pocket, stepping out of the Impala and walking briskly toward the door where the girl, possibly Ruby, is still standing.

Before Cas can reach her, she’s opening the door and stepping inside, slamming the door closed behind her.

He doesn’t know what to do. He’s never been in this situation before and he has no idea what’s customary when it comes to his boyfriend breaking into his brother’s apartment. He should probably knock, though. That seems like a good start.

But when he hears a high pitched scream coming from the apartment, he doesn’t bother. He rushes inside to see what’s happening.

The last thing Cas expected to see was Dean unconscious on the floor, lips blue, being dragged out of the bathroom by the short brunette yelling at Sam to wake up. 


	13. Chapter 13

Dean is laying on the beach.

It's a familiar beach, one he's been to before. The sand is pale, almost gray, blurring into the equally colorless sky. It's cloudy and windy, terrible beach weather, and the pebbled skin on his arms tells him that it's cold.

So, he's at the beach, but it's the wrong time of the year. Dean doesn't know exactly what the date is, but he can sense it with some deeper, subconscious understanding. It's winter, and the sharp wind is carrying the sand with it. Dean can feel the tiny little grains beneath his clothes, in his hair, and fuck – even in his mouth. He squints his eyes, trying to keep the sand from getting in there too, remembering something he once learned about the function of eyelashes. They're supposed to protect his eyes in this exact situation, he thinks, but they're not really doing their job.

A long wooden pier juts out into the ocean. The platform is weakly supported by old, growth-covered posts, undulating slightly against the waves crashing into it. Further down the pier, white paint is chipped and faded around a sign that says NO FISHING. Dean hadn't thought about fishing until he saw the sign, and now he kind of wants to.

There aren't many people on the sand, but a small distance behind him there's a road and a handful of tents. People are selling concession themed foods, like hot dogs and lemonade and ears of corn, but he can smell the wonderful tang of barbeque sauce and beer.

Dean has been to many beaches in his lifetime, from the sun-soaked sands of California to the rocky shores of Maine, but he remembers that this beach is his favorite. His brain is still foggy and muddled, he can't pull the name of the beach off the tip of his tongue, but it will come to him eventually. Maybe Sam knows what it is.

He looks around with peeled eyes, trying to find his little brother. He looks around for his dad, too, but he can't remember if he brought Sammy here on his own or if their dad actually made it out of the motel. Now that he's thinking about it, he can't remember the name of the motel, either.

Dean rises to his feet, which he notices are bare, and walks unsteadily toward the tents lining the road. The myriad of smells makes his mouth water, but it's not until he passes the Salty Toad tent that he actually stops and eyes the menu. He orders a small basket of seaweed snacks, and it's a good thing that neither Sam or John are around to make fun of him for it, because he hasn't eaten the stuff since...since the last time he was here. Whenever that was.

He ordered it the first time because he'd been trying to impress a girl. She was smart, _really_ smart, and one of those health-conscious types that liked to eat bloodless food Dean had never tried before. They met in an elective journalism class that he initially didn't want to take, but was eventually glad he did. She was the main reason for that, so when she invited him to the beach on a lazy Sunday morning, two weeks before Dean knew they'd be packing up and moving again, he didn't hesitate to say yes.

Cassie. That was her name, right? Dean can remember what she looked like, the way her hair smelled like cocoa butter and how her lips were plump enough to completely cover his, but for some reason her name is giving him some trouble. Cassie. He knows that has to be right, but it's leaving an aching, homesick feeling in his gut.

Then _Cas_ clicks somewhere in his head like the piece of a puzzle, and Dean wonders where he is. If Dean came here with Cas, that would explain why his dad and brother are nowhere to be found.

There's a major inconsistency with that, he realizes, but isn't sure why. Something about the existence of Sam, John and Cas together doesn't quite feel right. Not necessarily wrong, just...impossible, for some reason. Kind of like how the air doesn't really smell right, either. He knows what a beach is supposed to smell like, and this isn't it. This place smells more like an office, like paper and poplin and...aftershave?

“Dean?”

He looks around but sees no one. The tents are gone, along with all the patrons and even the road. There's just miles and miles of beach, slowly graying out until the sand matches the sky.

“Are you awake?”

He blinks once, then twice. The second time he opens his eyes, Dean's no longer on the beach. He's in the gross apartment.

Oh. Right.

As the world crashes unceremoniously back into place around him, he becomes aware of several important bits of information. First, and probably most important, is that he's not dead.

Dean is sitting up on the floor, his back leaned against the person behind him. He's sitting between a pair of legs that are snug against him, and their arms are beneath Dean's and wrapped around his torso. His head is tilted back, resting on their shoulder, the left side of his face pressed intimately against their neck. He can feel their pulse against his cheek. It's comforting.

He takes a shallow breath. The air bites its way down his throat and lungs, causing him to wince. More pieces fall into place. It's Cas behind him, holding him upright, his palms rubbing warm, gentle circles over Dean's chest.

Then, like a swift kick to his groin, Dean remembers Sam.

“Sam,” Dean croaks, pushing himself forward until he's dizzy and falling back.

“Shh, Dean, sit still. Sam is okay, I promise,” Cas whispers, his hold around Dean's chest tightening like a hug. “How are you feeling?”

“Like shit,” he answers honestly, his head throbbing in a dull rhythm. “Sam's okay?”

“Yes, but I need to make sure _you_ are. Can you sit still long enough to answer some questions for me?”

Dean grunts, frustrated, almost unwilling to deal with this nonsense right now. His head is killing him, his throat and lungs feel sore and his heart is still beating faster than normal. He remembers Sam laying on the floor, unable to breath and making that god-awful plashing noise, and despite Cas' assurance that Sam's okay, Dean would still rather check for himself.

Then again, he rather likes where he's sitting, and the way Cas is so carefully enveloped around him. No one, not even Lisa, has ever held Dean like this before. He could stand another few minutes of this.

“I guess,” Dean complies, his irritation still winning out through the edge in his voice.

Cas brings two fingers just below Dean's jawline, pressing tenderly to time his heart rate. He's faintly reminded of John, crashed in his recliner like the remnants of fuselage. It was the last time Dean ever checked his father's pulse.

This really isn't what Dean had in mind when he said he wanted to be just like his dad.

“Have you ever been diagnosed with syncope, Dean?” Cas asked, dropping his hand back down to Dean's shoulder.

“Sink-ah-pee? What the fuck is that?”

“Fainting, or passing out.”

“I don't fucking _faint_ , okay?” Dean bites, leaning forward again out of Cas' hold. He meant to get up off the floor, but Cas' hands make their way to Dean's back and it's completely unfair how relaxing it is. Of course it makes sense that Cas is also somehow a skilled masseuse.

“Okay,” Cas says, returning his voice to whisper, not contesting Dean's pissy retort. “Can you tell me how you ended up unconscious on the floor?”

Dean wipes a hand over his face, taking a deep breath. “Sammy was dying – or, I thought he was, anyway. I panicked,” he pauses, trying to keep himself calm as he recounts the story to Cas, “I couldn't breathe. I thought I was going to die, too.”

“Mmm,” Cas hums, still rubbing Dean's back slowly and firmly in a way that leaves him melting into a puddle. “When that happens, you need to sit like this with your head between your knees.”

“Why?”

“It helps the blood stay in your head. If this ever happens again, will you do that for me? If I'm not around to help you, that is.”

Dean has to think about that for a moment. Sure, he has no problem sticking his head between his knees like some kind of pussy ostrich, that's the not the big deal here. The problem is that Cas is _always_ around when something like this happens, ever since that fucked up night outside the Roadhouse. It was annoying at first, but now it's just...well, Dean doesn't know what it is.

Half the time, it's fucking infuriating. Dean isn't a girl, he's not a damsel and he doesn't always need to be rescued like this. He's always been the one taking care of other people, the one who knows what to do when things go sour. Dean was the one unafraid to steal when they were hungry, the one who threw himself into the line of fire whenever Sam or John needed it. He never needed all this careful handling before and it makes him feel so goddamned useless.

On the other hand, it sure is fucking nice. Being with Cas is consistent, he knows Cas will have his back and none of this stupid family shit has scared him away yet. And, for the first time in his life, he's comfortable being touched and held outside the boundaries of sex.

Dean huffs a small laugh. “Yeah, right. You're always around whether I like it or not.”

The hands on his back go still.

Ah, shit. Dean only meant it as a joke, but he doesn't have the opportunity to explain himself before the front door opens with a low groan. The same stunning brunette from the pictures has come into the apartment, her mascara and eyeliner slightly smudged from crying. She locks the door behind her and takes a few steps toward them, pausing when she's only a couple feet away.

“Sam still sleeping?” She asks, her lower lip quivering as she looks directly at Cas.

“Yes. He'll probably be asleep for some time,” Cas replies. He lifts himself up using the couch behind him to keep him steady, being careful not to touch Dean more than necessary. Dean follows, bringing himself to his feet despite the way his heart protests in his chest.

Ruby takes Cas into a hug, and the sight makes Dean's flesh crawl. This bitch is responsible for getting his baby brother addicted to drugs and Cas has the bright idea to _hug_ her? Dean tries his hardest not to open his big mouth and make the situation worse, but when Ruby looks up at Dean over Cas' shoulder and smiles at him, that's it. That's his fucking limit.

“Et tu, Brute?”

Cas turns around to look at Dean, his eyes narrowing in confusion. Ruby lets her hold of him go and walks up to Dean, extending her arms. She's not really trying to hug him too, is she?

“Fuck off, cunt!” Dean snaps, stepping out of her cross hairs. “Don't touch me.”

“Dean!” Cas gasps, giving him an incredulous look as if Dean's the one in the wrong. Some kind of fucking knight in shining armor he turned out to be.

He doesn't understand exactly what's going on, or how long he was passed out for, but Dean knows this whole situation is far more fucked up than he anticipated. This is the first time he's ever even seen Ruby, but just watching her get close to Cas or seeing that sultry smile spread across her face makes his stomach twist. Dean has never hit a women before in his life, but he's willing to make an exception for this one. Everything about her rubs him the wrong way and it's taking way more strength than it should not to walk over to her and wrap his calloused fingers around her neck.

Plus, the way Cas was looking back at Ruby? Not cool.

“You've got to be kidding me, Cas. Look what this little wench did to my brother!” Dean shouts, splaying his arms wide to gesture at the whole apartment. It's still a horrific mess, only slightly cleaned since the last time Dean was conscious, evidence that whoever this girl is, she's bad news. “She's a goddamn succubus!”

“Ruby is the only reason you're alive right now, so I will hug her as I please,” Cas intones, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Bullshit,” Dean tries to walk through the mess on the floor toward the bathroom, hoping to catch a glimpse of Sam on the floor, but when he wades through the clothes and trash and peeks his head in, Sam's not there. The alarm bells are ringing as if Quasimodo himself is in Dean's head, but he knows Cas wouldn't lie to him about this even if he were inexplicably on Ruby's side. “I want to see Sam.”

“He's sleeping it off,” Ruby says, standing where Dean left her. “I gave him some charcoal and he's recovering just fine.”

“The fuck is that?” Dean can't believe he's even having this conversation with her, the skirt he didn't even know existed until earlier today. He got a crash course lesson in Ruby 101 and he does _not_ like what he's learned. “That some kind of fucking code for something?”

“No, you idiot. It keeps him from overdosing.”

“Yeah, on the drugs _you_ gave him!” Dean's heart is running a marathon again, and his sternum is starting to throb in pain. Great, now he's light-headed. Dean braces himself against the wall and instinctively holds a hand over his chest. He doesn't want a repeat of earlier, especially not in front of Cas. He tugs on the collar of his shirt, pulling it away from his throat in a futile attempt to get more oxygen in his lungs. Dean needs some fresh air and a lot of miles between him and this apartment.

Cas is beside him in an instant, cupping Dean's face between his hands, his fingers applying a gentle pressure to the back of his head. “We should go, Dean. I'll explain everything in the car. You need to get some food in your system and calm down.”

“Fuck that,” Dean groans. He lifts his hands to Cas' chest with the intention of pushing him away, but when he feels Cas' pulse beneath his palms, he stops himself. Dean clutches at the fabric of Cas' shirt, pulling him closer until they're pressed together in a slightly awkward embrace. He's still mad at Cas, even though he's not really sure _why_ he's mad. He just needs their bodies together to help center him again so he can sort all this shit out and stop panicking.

“Please,” Cas breathes against Dean's ear, his voice softer and weaker than Dean has ever heard it before. “Can we take a step back for a moment? Please? We've been here one day and it's already more than I can handle.”

Shit. Cas really should have stayed home.

Dean feels like a complete and total asshole. Cas is right. They've been here for one day and so much more has happened than Dean was prepared for. The best thing he can do for everyone right now is disengage for a bit and think things over. Dean thought Cas was trying to save him earlier by suggesting lunch, but now he sees that Cas was probably uneasy about everything and was hoping to be saved.

Too bad for Cas, 'cause Dean is apparently too stupid and ill-equipped to help anyone. He can't even seem to save himself. He'll never be the hero in anyone's fable.

“Okay,” Dean agrees, releasing Cas' shirt from his grip. Cas looks relieved as he takes a deep breath, keeping his head down and leading Dean toward the door. Dean turns to Ruby a final time, giving her an indignant glare. “I'm coming back to see Sam tomorrow. He better be awake and not...all wacked out, or whatever. Got it?”

Ruby just lifts an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed by Dean's attempt at a threat. He's tempted to stick his tongue out at her or flip her the bird, but Cas tugs on his arm and practically drags him out of the apartment. “And clean this shit hole up, for fuck's sake,” Dean says before snapping the door shut behind him.

Cas is trembling by the time they're in the Impala.

How did Dean manage to fuck everything up in one day? Everything he touches turns to shit, like some kind of hilariously transposed King Midas. God must be having a real good laugh about this upstairs.

“Cas...” he starts, reaching over the seat until he has a hand on Cas' thigh, “Shit, I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry.”

Cas just nods and lets out a shaky breath, his hands clenching into fists. Dean is watching him through the dark (it's late now even though he still isn't sure what time it is) but Cas won't meet his gaze. This feels unusual, backwards almost, because Cas always seems so cool and calm and collected. Dean hopes he didn't break the poor guy already. He knew this wouldn't last forever, Cas is far too good to stick with a loser like Dean, but he was still hoping to ride out Cas' lapse in judgment a little longer.

“I thought you were dead,” Cas finally says.

Yeah, Dean thought he was dead too. “About that...what happened after I passed out?”

Cas laughs weakly, scraping his fingers across his face. “You know, we should probably take you to the hospital, make sure you're alright. Your lips were blue.”

“Wait, what?”

“I saw Ruby go into the apartment. You weren't answering your phone, and then I heard her scream. I went inside and saw you on the floor. It was...surreal, to say the least.”

Dean has no idea what to do. He's never been good with words, never been that great at comforting people who aren't Sam or John, and so far in their too-new relationship Cas has always been the one wearing the goddamn cape. Now Cas looks like the one crumbling to pieces, but Dean can't think a single damn word to say to make it better.

“I watched her drag you across the floor by your arm. She didn't even know you, Dean. You could have been there to kill her, but she saved you anyway. She saved you before she even went to check on Sam.”

Dean starts the car, getting the warm air going and keeping his mouth shut. They're still parked in front of the apartments, mostly because Dean has no idea where to go. They haven't even had a chance to rent a room yet. He tries to think about what Cas is saying from a neutral perspective, but it's difficult. Everything he knows about Ruby can summed up in a handful of curse words, but Cas can only praise her for whatever she did. Would Dean feel the same way if she had saved Cas?

Cas continues, “It only took her a moment to bring you back. It was almost like CPR, the way she revived you, but it was obvious she had never done it before. She just...breathed into you. Tilted your head back and put her mouth over yours.”

“Was I dead? Like, seeing the light and trying to run from it, dead?”

“No, thank God. Your heart never stopped, just your lungs. You must have stopped breathing in your state of panic, and forgot to start again when you passed out on the floor. I just – Dean, seeing you that way, it wasn't easy.”

Dean doesn't have to try too hard to imagine how horrible that would be. He went into a complete panic attack seeing it happen to Sam, and the truth is that Dean would have done the same thing if it had been Cas, plain and simple. It would rip him to shreds to see anything happen to him, to think he was dead or dying and not be able to save him.

Dean is about to say something, but Cas cuts him off. “I'm sorry too, Dean. I'm sorry I'm always around even if you don't want me to be. I'm sorry I told you my feelings too soon and that this trip isn't what either of us expected it to be. I'm sorry about Sam -”

“Cas, whoa, slow down,” Dean says, grabbing Cas' hand. Everything has spiraled out of control and Dean's got to find a way to rein it all back in.

He loves Cas, _loves_ him, but he knows that it won't matter unless he fixes his part in this mess. Dean can't be a hero, but he can sure as hell do damage control and right now that's what their relationship needs. They're both scared and uncertain and this might be the only chance Dean will ever get to prove he's not a pretty little princess, a helpless maiden.

Dean squeezes Cas' hand, dragging his thumb across the back of his knuckles. “First off, I always want you around. Like, all the time. I made a poorly timed joke, but I never claimed to be a comedian. So, just stop worrying about that. Put that out of your mind right now.”

Cas gives him a confused, almost dumbfounded look, as if he doesn't really buy what Dean is trying to say. It hurts a little to see, but Dean knows he hasn't exactly given Cas many reasons to believe it. He's got to work on that.

“Second, I don't want to turn this into a chick-flick moment because I've had enough shit for one day, but you didn't say anything to me that I don't reciprocate, okay? Don't make me say it right now, just know that it's true.”

Cas still has that confused look on his face for a moment, then understanding spreads across his features like wildfire. His eyes widen and his lips part slightly, and there's almost a smile before Cas manages to keep it under control. Dean suddenly wants to speak the words just so he can see a full reaction, but he knows now is not the time.

When he does say it, he doesn't want it to be in a parking lot in California, right after he fainted like a chick in a corset, and definitely not in the same day he found out his brother is addicted to...drugs. Whatever Sam is on, it's not good.

“You're right. You're always right, Cas. Let's just get something to eat and find a place to stay for the night, like you said. We'll talk about this more after we've had a chance to breathe. Tomorrow morning, we'll come back to see Sam and I'll try not to fight with Ruby – but no promises. Deal?”

Cas nods, but he still looks unsettled. Dean doesn't think there's anything he can do about that until they're full of fast food and laying in bed somewhere, but he can at least try. He does the only thing that comes to mind, which is pat the space on the bench seat right next to him until Cas scoots over and rests his head on Dean's shoulder.

“You can pick the place tonight, if you want,” Dean suggests, hoping he's not going to regret it, “even if it's the most ridiculous hotel ever built, I'll stay wherever you choose, alright?”

“Really?” Cas says, a touch of excitement in his tone. “I...yes, I would like that. I'll find a place on my phone.”

Dean nervously bites on the inside of his cheek as he pulls out of the parking lot and heads towards the main road they came in on. “But I get to pick the food.”

* * * * *

The Garden Court Hotel is everything Dean feared it would be.

He's never felt more out of place than he does right now. Cas is checking them into a room, which happens to cost about four hundred dollars a night, and Dean is just standing there behind him holding an In-N-Out Burger bag dotted with grease stains. He got his burger and fries animal style, of course, so it also smells strongly of onions and mustard and poverty.

There's a bellhop standing nearby that looks like a freakin' monkey, giving Dean the stink eye like he doesn't belong there, like Dean doesn't _know_ he doesn't belong there, and he's half tempted to open his bag of food and just start chewing on something with his mouth open. He has no problem playing the role of a slack-jawed yokel if that's how people want to treat him.

As relaxed as Dean is trying to be, he still can't stop thinking about Sam. It's not unusual considering he's never gone a day without doing so, but it's especially hard now that he knows Sam hasn't been living some cookie-cutter life, getting straight A's and sticking his nose up every teacher's ass. He's been getting high and living in filth and reading books about abandoning family. He almost feels guilty for staying somewhere nice while Sam sleeps off that charcoal shit in the apartment from hell.

They swipe Cas' card with a smile and hand him the key. The woman behind the counter gestures for the bellhop to come over, so the monkey-man walks over and graciously takes Cas' suitcase. He looks at Dean for a moment, then down to Dean's paper bag of burgery goodness. “May I take your...bag, sir?”

Dean laughs, but Cas gives him a look that tells him it's not a joke.

“Sure,” Dean says with a sarcastic smile, handing his food over to the bellhop, “but please, call me Cletus Spuckler.”

Cas rolls his eyes and takes Dean by the elbow, guiding him toward the elevator. The bellhop looks absolutely disgusted by the bag he's holding, which almost makes it worth it.

When they get to the room, the monkey-man drops off their bags and stands by the door, waiting for something. Dean has seen this in the movies, and he knows the guy is waiting for a tip. He glances at Cas, who is going through his wallet in search of a decent amount, but Dean can do him one better. He walks over to the guy and reaches deep in his pocket, pulling out a linty fifty cents.

He hands it over and the bellhop is clearly unimpressed by Dean's sense of humor. “Don't spend it all in one place, kid,” Dean adds, patting him firmly on the shoulder. He turns to go back into the room, but Cas is standing behind him with a one-hundred dollar bill in his hand, equally unaffected by Dean's antics.

“Here you are, sir,” Cas says, handing the shiny green bill over. The bellhop accepts it with a smile and grateful thank you. “Forgive my comrade. Cletus is still adjusting to life off the farm.”

Monkey-man laughs at _that_ , which is stupid. It wasn't even funny.

Cas closes the door and smirks at Dean. “Two can play at that game, Dean.”

“Yeah, you're mister fuckin' hilarious, I get it.”

Cas just smiles and takes Dean's hand, pulling him toward the heart of the room. He's clearly pleased with himself, probably feeling comfortable for the first time since they left Lawrence, but Dean can barely absorb his surroundings without feeling like he's inhaling particles of solid gold.

The room is obviously worth the high price. The bed is oversized, bigger than any king bed he's seen before, and opulent drapes are hanging all over the room – even where there aren't any fucking windows. Dean doesn't get the point of that, he's never understood why people have decorative shit that doesn't actually serve a purpose. This room seems to have a lot of that, from the black carpet with gold stripes to the headboard that reaches the ceiling. It's overwhelming to say the least, and a small part of him would almost prefer to stay in Ruby's nasty living room.

There's a glowing fireplace in the corner and a forty-two inch flat screen television in front of the bed. Never mind, this place is way better.

He doesn't know why, but Dean expected the bathroom to at least be relatively normal. So when he goes in there to take a piss, he's caught off-guard by the floor-to-ceiling marble, designer lights, and the giant walk-in shower that might as well be a glass cage of sexiness.

“Shit,” he mutters to himself. Maybe this whole fancy living thing isn't as bad as he thought. If nothing else, he can at least scrub himself clean of the sticky apartment germs and get a good night's sleep on the Egyptian cotton sheets.

Not that Dean has any idea what Egyptian cotton is. Cas says it's a good thing.

They eat their burgers at the round, cloth-covered table by the fireplace, watching a late-night comedy in high definition. Cas looks peaceful, like he's really in his element here, and it pokes at that old wound of Dean's that reminds him he's not good enough. He can handle a single night of this ostentatious crap for Cas' sake, but this isn't something he can do every night or even more than just this. Dean can convince himself that this isn't a big deal because it's just one night, it's just a new experience to add to the list, but he'll never actually live this way. Not just because he can't afford it, but because he genuinely doesn't want to.

It's not his style, not his preference. It's clearly Cas', and that worries him.

Midnight rolls around and they're finally ready to call it a night. They spent a couple hours just laying on the bed watching television, nothing too serious or action packed, just romantic comedies and lighthearted, campy sitcoms so that neither of them had to be reminded of their upcoming obstacles. They didn't want to think about the fact that the Winchesters nearly went extinct or that Sam is currently recovering from an overdose, even though Dean still doesn't know what Sam had been high on.

He doesn't know what to say to Bobby, either. Dean has to tell Bobby everything, even if Sam got sober immediately and cleaned up his act, Bobby still needs to know what's been going on. Ellen too, probably, but he doesn't know how to casually slide it into conversation for minimal damage. And, if he's being honest with himself, he doesn't really want them to know. He doesn't want everyone to think of Sam as some waste of space, as the sludge of society wasting perfectly good air and tax dollars.

They don't know Sam. They know him, but they don't _really_ know him, not like Dean does. They don't know what he and Sammy went through. They don't know what life was like for them and they'll never truly understand it, anyway. Everything that's ever happened to Sam, everything he's ever been through, is all Dean's fault.

Sam's addiction, whatever it is, is Dean's responsibility. Just like John's.

Cas dragged them sluggishly into bed when the clock struck midnight, and despite Dean insisting that they wouldn't turn into pumpkins, Cas tucked them in and fell asleep almost immediately. It had been a long day, and Dean was tired too, but he still couldn't sleep. The hours of watching shows with pre-recorded laughing audiences didn't do much to quell the storm brewing in his chest.

Once he's certain that Cas is deeply lost in dream-land, Dean scoots off the bed and puts on a pair of the hotel slippers. They're much softer than he's willing to admit, but no one else is around to witness him wiggle his toes in the fluffy fabric, so he just lets himself enjoy it. The robe he pulls on over his shoulders is soft, too, and it feels orgasmic against his bare skin. He's got on a pair of long pajama pants, but pretty much everywhere else on his body that can feel the expensive fabric is having a party.

There's a small patio just outside the glass double doors, which reminds him of the cabin they stayed at in Colorado. He really liked that place.

They're on the fourth floor, so from the patio he can look down at the dimly lit courtyard below. There are still a few other guests awake and walking around, mostly couples romantically linked arm and arm, and it's kind of sweet. He wonders if he and Cas will ever have something like that, or if it will always be this strained and awkward.

Dean lights a cigarette and lets the smoke fill his aching lungs. He probably shouldn't be smoking after what happened, but he doesn't care enough to stop. Actually, it feels really fucking good, and after the day he's had he's not going to apologize for doing it.

He pulls out his phone next and scrolls through his texts, then picks the last one he got from Charlie. He hits Reply and writes _Can you look someone up for me?_ Then hits Send.

It's not even five minutes later when Dean gets a reply.

**Charlie Bradbury 12:36AM**

**> > who?**

**Dean Winchester 12:36AM**

**< < Ruby. dont have last name. student at stanford**

**Charlie Bradbury 12:37AM**

**> > gotcha. gimme a bit**

Dean has no idea how he's going to handle tomorrow, or what he's even going to say to Sam. He has no idea what to do in this situation despite a lifetime of dealing with John, because Sam doesn't live with him and he's not exactly addicted to alcohol. It feels like completely new territory, and if he's going to trek over this bumpy terrain, he's got to know all he can about who he's dealing with first.

**Charlie Bradbury 12:55AM**

**> > lotta rubys but most notable is the vice deans daughter. this her?**

Attached is a picture of a younger, sweeter version of the succubus he met today. Damn, Charlie is good.

**Dean Winchester 12:56AM**

**< < affirmative. what can you find out about her?**

Dean smokes a second cigarette, still watching people walking around below in the courtyard, and after about thirty minutes he guesses Charlie fell asleep. He can't blame her, it's late and he's lucky he got a reply at all.

He goes back inside and locks the doors behind him out of habit, not because he's actually worried someone is dumb enough to try and rob this place. He reluctantly slips out of the robe and slippers, missing the way it feels on his skin, but replaces it with the incredibly silky cotton sheets of the world's largest king sized bed. Cas is still fast asleep, curled up on his side with a big pillow between his legs. It's kind of cute.

Ugh, when did Dean turn into such a damn girl?

Slowly, not wanting to wake Cas up, he inches closer to Cas' back and curls up against him, resting an arm over his waist and burying his face in the back of Cas' neck. This may not be Dean's favorite place, but it was worth it to see Cas unwind, to see him unfold and relax despite the circumstances.

Dean yawns and slips into sleep as well, dreaming about nameless beaches and girls with deep cocoa skin.

When he wakes, it's to the sound of the shower running. Bright sunlight bleeds through the curtains onto Dean's face, warming and waking him more as he sits up and rubs the sleep from his eyes. He stretches, even though he doesn't really need to. The bed was so comfortable that he didn't have any kinks in his back to straighten out, no sore muscles to soothe or tender neck to rub. Just one more upside to add the growing list of things that rich people apparently take for granted.

He considered the benefits of joining Cas in the shower, but he's too in love with the bed to leave it just yet. He burrows under the covers a little deeper and childishly turns himself into a cocoon. Dean isn't quite ready yet to face the day, to face Sam and Ruby and the never-ending consequences of Dean's fourth birthday.

Dean loses track of time as he falls in and out of an early morning haze, his lingering dream blurring with reality, until Cas gets out of the shower and returns to the bed. Cas doesn't bother pretending that he thinks Dean is still asleep, choosing instead to lay right on top of his blanket cocoon and wrapping him further in a warm, almost too-tight hug.

“Mmmff,” Dean complains, muffled by the sheets. He can smell the body wash and shampoo that Cas used, so sweet and rich that it's practically cloying.

“Time to get up, sleepy,” Cas says to the mound of blankets beneath him. Dean is starting to sweat under the thick heat of the down blanket and Cas' steam-warmed skin.

“Don't wanna,” Dean complains, burrowing deeper.

Cas moves a little to the side, reaching for something before returning to lay on top of Dean. “Your phone woke me up this morning. Someone's been trying to reach you, but you looked like you needed the sleep.” He slips a hand into Dean's downy nest, giving him the phone.

Cas wasn't kidding. There's a bunch of messages and missed phone calls.

**Charlie Bradbury 2:51AM**

**> > multiple arrest for possession of heroin**

**> > rehab six times**

**> > girl named lilith died from overdose in her aprtmen**

**> > apartment***

**> > daddy always bails her out**

**Charlie Bradbury 3:12AM**

**> > ????**

**Charlie Bradbury 3:47AM**

**> > her dad is vice dean of stanford this has something to do with sam doesnt it**

**> > what the hell are you not telling me**

**Charlie Bradbury 4:25AM**

**> > is sam on heroin omg**

**> > she is bad news dean people have died in her apartment**

**Robert Singer 6:43AM**

**> > CALL ME**

Goddamnit. Charlie and her big fucking mouth.

Dean doesn't even know if it's heroin. There were so many pills in that place that it could have been anything. Just because that fucking bitch has a history with heroin doesn't mean Sam is on it. There's no way Sam could possibly be that stupid.

Cas had already rolled off of Dean to give him some privacy while checking his phone, so Cas is across the room getting dressed and humming a tune Dean doesn't recognize. Dean wished he could be in that place with him, in a relatively peaceful mindset with just an ounce of optimism, but now he doesn't think he'll make it through the front door without another panic attack.

Heroin. Seriously?

Dean unravels himself and sits up, suddenly feeling a sense of determination that had been missing the last few days. It's a tiny piece of his old self that he clings to immediately, desperately. He's going to need it to make it through the rest of the day.

“You don't happen to have Ruby's number, do you?”

“Yes, actually,” Cas responds pointing at his phone. “She gave it to me yesterday, put it in my phone.”

Dean reaches across the bed to the other nightstand, unplugging Cas' phone from the charger and going through his contacts to find her phone number. As he's scrolling through, Balthazar's name catches his eye and he makes a mental note to delete it later.

No, wait, Dean's not that creepy. Still, it bothers him.

He finds Ruby's number and copies it into his phone, then calls. It rings a handful of times before going to voice mail. Dean debates for second on whether or not to leave a message, but when he hears her stupid, chirpy voice on the recording followed by a familiar beep, he doesn't hesitate.

“Listen, you little slut. I'm coming over today and Sam better be awake. I know what you do and if I find out you got my brother addicted to heroin, I will _ruin_ you. Tell Sam to start packing his fucking bags because he's going home with me, _tonight_.”

 


	14. Chapter 14

Dean hammers on the apartment door, his knuckles red and chaffing from scraping against the solid wood. He' been going at it for over five minutes, knocking repeatedly every thirty seconds because he knows they're in there and he's not leaving without his little brother. Dean can hear them, arguing in hushed tones muffled by the door, but as he knocks for the hundredth time, they don't bother trying to keep it down.

Cas is waiting in the Impala per Dean's instruction, watching Dean through the windshield with concerned, apologetic eyes. It's not about protection, because Cas can easily defend himself if necessary, it's more for the sake of efficiency and a little bit about privacy. Dean has no idea how Sam will react, but he probably won't want an audience when he hears about their dad. It's a brother thing, he supposes, and as soon as either Sam or Ruby opens the door, they can get this show on the road.

They're arguing now loudly enough for Dean to make out some of the words, but he still isn't sure what they're saying. Ruby is doing most of the yelling, Sam's responses seem typically indignant, and Dean is about to kick the door down if he has to wait much longer.

Cas gets out of the car and walks up toward the door. He does so casually, as if the situation isn't incredibly tense and awkward, and lifts a single finger to ring the doorbell. Dean gives him a frustrated look of annoyance, but when the door swings open to reveal a tear-stained Ruby glaring at the both of them, Cas simply returns the look with a smirk.

“Hello Ruby,” Cas intones, not commenting on her runny makeup or the unfiltered glare she's giving the both of them.

“Castiel,” she acknowledges, the corners of her lips rising to meet the conventional standards of a smile. She turns until she's facing only Dean, her shoulders pulling back slightly to straighten her posture. “A word?”

“You can say as many words as you like,” Dean spits, “I'm still leaving here with Sam.”

Ruby ignores him for the moment, rolling her eyes as she steps out of the apartment and closes the door behind her. She tugs on both his and Cas' shirt sleeves, guiding them away from the front door and down the grass-lined path until they are at the complex's community playground. She sits on the rubber seat of the swing, her fingers curling around the metal chains as she digs the toes of her shoes into the sand.

The way she's sitting makes Dean think of her as a little girl. She's folded in on herself, using her feet to rock herself back and forth to get just enough momentum on the swing. The humid California breeze is playing games with her hair, and the streaks of tears on her face would go well with a matching pair of skinned knees. It's disarming, and maybe that was the point of dragging two six-foot tall men to the playground. Maybe she knows she has an advantage here that she didn't have in her apartment.

Dean shakes those thoughts free from his head, and tries to look at her with the tainted specs he had before. Ruby is the enemy, the beguiling vixen that lured his innocent brother into a life of drugs and alcohol. He has to remember that and keep it forefront in his mind if wants any chance of winning this conversation.

“Sam sounds like he's doing better,” Cas notes, keeping his voice light and calm. Leave it Cas to be the literal voice of reason, the soothing background noise that keeps everyone else from erupting.

“Yeah,” she agrees, nodding her head and looking off toward their apartment. “He's better. Angry with himself, but better.”

“He should be angry with _you_ ,” Dean cuts in, taking a step closer to where she's sitting on the swing, “you're the one who did this to him.”

Ruby rolls her eyes again, and holy shit it's annoying. “I didn't do anything to him that he didn't want done, okay?”

“Lying bitch.”

“Dean,” Cas says, grabbing his arm in a way that's not commanding, but comforting. It settles him for a moment and allows him to regain his composure, biting the inside of his cheek like it's anchoring him to the ground.

Ruby is pouting, clearly not a fan of being called names or having accusations thrown her way. It's the truth though, Dean knows it is with every fiber of his being, because the Sam he remembers would never have done this. He'd have never thrown his future away for something as selfish as temporary pain relief.

Then he feels the weight of the book in his jacket pocket, the one he stole from Sam's room, the one with those awful words highlighted and underlined as if they were the golden promises of God himself. The weight tilts his jacket off-center, the left side of the collar digs into his neck like a nagging reminder that no, he doesn't know his brother as well as he thought he did. It only makes him hate Ruby further.

“Maybe we should listen to what she has to say,” Cas suggests, looking between Dean and Ruby to assess their moods. He must not get a very good read, because he starts looking more uncomfortable than the too-cool cucumber he has been all morning.

Dean shoots Cas a laser sharp glare. “Why should I?” He challenges, feeling every bit the ornery asshole he's acting like, “I don't owe her anything.”

“Your life,” Cas corrects, and it fucking hurts to hear. “Sam's life.”

“Yeah, I didn't have to save you, you know,” Ruby says, and everything about that sentence pisses Dean off something fierce. It's taking all of his willpower to keep himself from strangling her, but he's never so much as hit a woman before and he doesn't want to start now. Though Ruby hardly qualifies as a woman, the venom-bleeding spider that she is, so for her he might be willing to make an exception.

“Wouldn't have been the first time someone died in your apartment, right?” Dean says, taking vindictive pleasure in the way she recoils from his comment. “From what I hear, being close to you can be quite the death sentence.”

Ruby works her jaw against the breeze, then sucks her lower lip between her teeth and bites on it. Tears well in her eyes once again, threatening to follow the dried trails left from her earlier crying, but she uses some kind of emotional judo to reel them back in. She rises from the swing, giving Dean another poisonous look that burns like a bee sting. “You don't know what you're talking about.”

Dean feels a moment of bursting pride in himself. He's worked his way under her skin, hitting a sore spot that he can use to get back at her for all the bullshit she's caused for Sam. Give her a taste of her own thick, cloying medicine.

“Maybe,” Dean starts, ignoring the silent warning in Cas' eyes, “we could always ask Lilith, right?”

Ruby shoves at Dean's chest, and despite the fury fueling her aggression, her short stature and slender limbs barely do more than register as pressure. It makes Dean chuckle, the way she looks like a kitten batting against the full body of a bulldog. Cas doesn't seem appreciate the humor, or the situation at all, so Dean stops smiling as broadly as he is and bites the inside of his cheek again. He'll just have to appreciate the golden humor of Ruby's pathetic attempts at violence silently.

“You don't know anything,” Ruby says, clenching her fists before crossing her arms over her chest. “You don't know anything about me or my life.”

“I know enough. I know that if Sam stays here with you he's going to end up like your other friends. Sick way to add notches to your bedpost, Ruby,” Dean says.

Cas shakes his head, defeated, almost looking like he's about to step away or go back to the car. It irks Dean, because Cas is supposed to be on his side, not Ruby's, not the bitch that has stolen all the good of his brother and replaced it with an empty void to be filled with drugs. Dean gets it, he knows that Cas appreciates Ruby's life saving skills, but what he seems to be missing is that Ruby wouldn't have needed to save anyone's life if she hadn't of put them in that position in the first place.

If it weren't for Ruby, Dean would have arrived at Stanford to find Sam out to lunch with Jessica, happy, sober, still getting A's and enjoying a sappy afternoon with the sweet and perky blonde instead of overdosing on...whatever it was Sam took. That's what Dean expected, it's everything Sam wanted for himself and it's not fair that he's caught up in Ruby's current instead.

This is not what Dean pictured when he laid in his bed, staring at all the packed boxes littering Sam's side of the room. He only made it through each night because he thought Sam was happy. Free.

“Sam doesn't want to talk to you,” Ruby finally says, apparently trying to take the high road and moving the conversation along. Even though it's for the best, it still angers Dean for some reason. Everything Ruby does sets his teeth on edge and makes him want to punch her. For Cas' sake, he tries not to let it show.

“Why not?”

“Because he knows you won't listen to him. He doesn't want to go back to Kansas with you, _Toto_.”

She meant it as an insult, of course, but Dean has heard so much worse. It's not like he didn't hear each state's colorful opinion of the Midwest over the course of his childhood, every time he answered the dumb question _where are you from,_ because everyone wants to know the origins of the new kid in class. Hell, he spent six weeks being called Dorothy the time they lived in South Carolina.

“Sam is an addict, he needs help,” Cas explains quietly, as if he's trying to appeal to Ruby's better nature. Doesn't exist, not that Cas would be willing to acknowledge that, but Dean knows. The only good side women like Ruby have is on their back.

“He's doing just fine, okay? He's been sober for almost a week and he relapsed. It happens. You being here will only make his addiction worse.”

“Sam needs rehab, simple as that. He needs _family_. Heroin isn't a joke and he's not going to get sober in that fucking apartment. You've got drugs and shit all over the place,” Dean says, almost yelling. He's furious, unable to stop the overwhelming anger from bubbling up. Ruby must be more dumb than she looks if she really thinks Sam is doing _just fine_. “You really think I'm worse than being around a bathroom full of pills? How fucking delusional are you?”

A flicker of irritation flashes across her features, her upper lip lifting in a snarl for just a moment before she relaxes and leans back on her heals. It's subtle, but Dean can see it – she's serpentine enough that he knows she's about to spit some kind of insult that could give her the upper hand, like the warning hiss of a rattlesnake when it holds its ground.

“Be careful, Dean. You're not the only one who knows how to dig up information. I don't suppose you've told Castiel how your mother died, have you?”

The tremors of shock quake through Dean's body like an avalanche. He can feel the building pressure tumble and roll from the top of his skull and down through the tips of his fingers, out his pores and through the soles of his shoes into the sand beneath him. It's cold and suffocating, and somehow his skin is shrinking and there's not enough room in his body for all of his organs.

This bitch – no, this  _leech_ – has latched onto Dean's flesh with her oversized lips and is sucking his lifeblood through the wound.

“Shut up,” Dean says, because his brain has stopped working and he can't think of anything else to say. He just knows he needs Ruby to stop wagging that rotting tongue before she's infected their ears with any more of her putrid words.

Cas is swept away by confusion, knocked slightly off-balance by the impact of Ruby's accusation and his lack of knowledge. He's confused, looking toward Dean for answers that don't exist, that Dean won't allow to exist. Cas can never know that particular secret. It's not the kind that best friends share during sleepovers or the kind that can be revealed with some apprehension during a heated game of Truth or Dare. It's the kind of secret that lurks beneath the muddy waters of shame and regret, the kind that would scare Cas away if he ever heard it, the kind that Dean has kept carefully hidden for twenty years.

He promised John he would never tell. It's the only promise left for his father that Dean can keep.

“Thought so,” Ruby chides, and smugness looks so disgustingly devilish on her that it makes Dean feel sick. “Sam has told me a few things about you, Dean. He thinks you're pathetic. You and your father deserve each other.”

Dean feels Cas' hold again on his arm, and though it's supposed to be a gentle touch, it's too firm and solid to be anything other than restraint. Cas' thumb glides up and down over the jacket, poorly masking the restrictive grip as something warm and gentle. It's a feeble disguise, and if it had been from anyone other than Cas, Dean would have shoved them away immediately.

“Maybe we should go,” Cas breathes over Dean's shoulder, a quiet but urgent plea to disengage from Ruby's cruel game. He doesn't give Dean much of a choice, the way he's stepping back and dragging Dean along with him.

Ruby laughs at the sight, and Dean can only imagine how he must look like right now. He's shaking, adrenaline coursing through him and stinging his eyes with budding tears, being pulled away by his pacifist boyfriend like a brat on a kid leash. Oh, what he would give to bloody up her cocky smirk, to knock a few of those braces-straight teeth loose or rub her nose in her own feces like the wicked little dog she is.

Dean never thought he would hate anyone more than he hated himself. He was wrong. So wrong.

“He almost died from that heroin shit yesterday and you want me to walk away?” Dean growls at Cas, who stops and lets him go immediately. Cas obviously does not want to anger Dean any further, but he stands his ground. Dean knows that Cas isn't the person he should be yelling at, but he never claimed to be logical.

“It wasn't heroin, dumbass,” Ruby mocks, the smile lingering on her face, “Sam took too much Tramadol, that's it.”

Before Dean can ask  _what the fuck is Tramadol,_ Cas leans in and answers, “Pills, painkillers.”

And if that doesn't top off Dean's wonderfully fucked up circus of a day, nothing else will. Pills? Seriously, Sammy? Of all the drugs in the world to take, of everything he could have tried and become addicted to, why did he have to gravitate toward the stuff that makes him look like a whiny, desperate housewife? Ugh, Dean hates those little pill-popping sorority blondes, and he has no idea why Sam taking them makes him more angry than if he'd been blowing up his veins.

Shouldn't that be a good thing? Yeah, that's what Dean needs to focus on. He doesn't know much about drugs, but he does know that heroin is that hardest drug to quit. Isn't that what kills all those celebrities? Isn't that what killed Sid Vicious, Jim Morrison, even Jimi Hendrix? Pills he can work with – pills he can help his brother work through and overcome.

“So he's not on heroin?” Dean clarifies, an ounce of hope bleeding through the tenor of his voice.

Ruby adjusts her stance, shifting her weight from the heels of her feet to her toes, looking uncomfortable. She bites on that stupid lip of hers again, glancing toward the apartment. “Sometimes, okay? But not all the time.”

Sometimes. Not all of the time.

Now it's worse, the agonizing weight of despair, because it's not just one addiction that Sam needs to power through. It's not just heroin, the worst thing he could be using, but also painkillers and God knows what else is in that death trap of an apartment. Fuck, he's probably already lost his brother forever.

For just a passing second, Dean wishes he had never come to California. He'd rather still be in Lawrence, unknowing, blissfully yet painfully believing that Sam was happier and healthier here. Flourishing, living the smart-ass' American dream at a fancy college. Not this bullshit. Not throwing everything away and slowly killing himself for no good fucking reason.

He can't leave Sam here. He can't.

Dean realizes then that he can easily outrun Ruby, and he's not sure why he didn't think of it sooner. Using the training his father relentlessly taught him, Dean twists on the balls of his feet until his body is aligned with the cement pathway that leads straight to Ruby's apartment door. He pushes himself forward, digging his toes into the ground for purchase, taking off like a skilled sprinter toward his baby brother.

He probably looks silly, but he doesn't care. It might be the childish thing to do, but he doesn't care about that, either. Dean only has one thing on his mind, only one mission left in this stupid, unforgiving world. He's going to save Sammy, and if that means running into Ruby's apartment and locking the door behind him, so be it. If he could just talk to Sam, make him see reason, he knows he can do the rest with Bobby's help back in Lawrence.

Cas calls out for Dean as soon he's running, but he doesn't slow down. Cas is a big boy and can hold his own against Ruby, not that she would try to hurt him anyway considering they're best fucking buddies. He's at the door in fifteen seconds, letting himself in and slamming it closed behind him. He locks it, hoping Ruby doesn't actually have a key with her.

Sam is sitting on the couch, staring at nothing. He's not high, at least he doesn't appear to be, but he does look like a sad, overgrown puppy with the way his hands are limp and folded in his lap. He's not even surprised that Dean just infiltrated the apartment. Maybe he and Ruby already knew Dean would try something stupid and crazy like that.

The apartment is clean now, thank God. Dean doesn't have to try and battle Sam on a gross arena like a fucked up game of Garbage Mortal Kombat. Not that he plans on battling Sam, anyway, but Sam mastered the art of verbal punishment long ago and he's probably learned some new tricks in the last couple of years. Shit, maybe that's how Ruby learned how to lace her words with such vile poison.

“You sober enough to talk?” Dean asks, slightly out of breath, which is kind of embarrassing considering he didn't have very far to run. He blames it on all the adrenaline and his racing heart.

Sam leans forward on the couch, resting his weight on his elbows, and takes a deep breath. He looks defeated, which Dean isn't used to seeing on his determined, go-get-em little brother. It's so unsettling it's almost unnatural. Has Sam changed more than Dean realized?

“You should just go, Dean. I'm not going with you.”

“Why not? Come on, Sam, we can help you.”

Sam huffs out a weak laugh, tilting his head back to look up at the ceiling as if the answers are written in the paint. “I'm not asking for help.”

“That's the beauty of family, Sammy. You don't have to.”

Ruby is pounding on the door now, twisting the doorknob in futile frustration. It's not loud or even that hard, she's probably trying not to cause a scene since they are very much in public, but her deep irritation at being thwarted is obvious. Dean almost feels bad for her, but he's never felt that bad for villains before so he reminds himself why this is important. Sam is still just sitting there, not bothered by his girlfriend making a commotion at the door.

“Why did you come here?” Sam asks, still avoiding looking in Dean's direction. Dean takes a few steps closer to Sam, circling around the couch so he's standing somewhat in front of him. Sam really does look like he's defeated, like he's given up on life and is sitting on the couch with all the shattered pieces of his hopes and dreams. It's heartbreaking, really, which is not a word he's ever used to describe his moose of a brother before.

“I came here to tell you something important,” Dean starts, but then stops himself. Is it a good idea to tell Sam about their dad right now? Is Sam's constitution even strong enough to deal with that kind of news without wanting to slip into a drug-induced coma? He doesn't want to ruin his chances of getting Sammy in the car and on the way to Lawrence, but the questioning look on Sam's face means that he probably won't budge without hearing the news first.

Goddammit.

“What is it?” Sam pushes, finally looking at Dean. It hurts to see Sam this way so much, like the hollowed darkness beneath Sam's tired, hopeless eyes are stabbing knives of guilt into Dean's stomach and twisting.

“It's about dad,” he says, testing the waters of this particular conversation. Dean doesn't want to just jump right in without seeing how badly Sam might take it.

That concern goes out the window pretty quickly when Sam begins to laugh, a noise and motion that looks out of place on his sickened features. “What, he's sick? Or no, wait, he's all better now and wants us to be a family again?”

Yeah, Dean should have known that's exactly how Sam was going to take it. He kind of suspected this already, he knew better than to expect a positive outcome, and yet somehow he's still burning with surprised anger. Sam doesn't know John is dead, that's why. If he knew that John was buried six feet beneath the Earth, he wouldn't be laughing, would he?

“No, listen. Dad died, Sam. He's dead.”

The laughing stopped. Sam's expression went completely blank, no hint of any emotion glinting in his eyes or moving his lips. He looks strange this way, like a computer resetting itself to upload the new information. Dean stands stalk still, almost afraid to move, worried he might miss Sam rebooting and processing what he just heard.

A breath catches in Sam's throat. He taps his fingers on the arm of the couch, then sharply exhales. Dean searches Sam's face for a trace of sadness, for any hint of gloom and doom or despair. But there's nothing, no real discernible emotion. No, Dean couldn't handle it if Sam truly didn't care. John and Sam hated each other, but they were still family. Surely Sammy felt even the smallest amount of pain over this.

“Sam?” Dean presses, worried now that he's broken his brother or shut off a functionality switch in his brain.

“So, what? You're looking for someone else to fix now?” Sam accuses, his voice dark and throaty like he's fighting back tears. But there are no tears welling in his eyes, no other sign that Sam cares their father has died. He's not even asking how or when, or any of the usual questions people ask when a loved one passes on. Does he really not give a shit?

“Are you kidding me? No! I had no idea you were on drugs!” It was probably the wrong thing to say, but Dean has no idea what else can be said. Sam didn't just convey that he doesn't care about their dad, he also used the same sentence to stab at Dean's weak points. Sam still has that same old barbed wire tongue, and it hurts just as much as it ever did.

Sam stands up from the couch, and it makes Dean actually take a step back. Holy fuck, Sam is  _huge_ , and it's a rare thing for Dean to feel intimidated like this considering he's a full grown six-foot-one man himself. Sam is easily several inches taller than him, still filled out with a muscular frame despite being obviously underweight and unhealthy. Dean isn't sure what to expect, he can't tell if Sam is going to try to fight him or just scare the crap out of him, but either way Sam's tactic is working. Dean is backing up toward the door with a racing heart and trembling legs.

It's not just the idea of fighting that has Dean scared, it's the idea of fighting Sam – a real, physical altercation with his baby brother isn't something he's ever done lightly. They've fought plenty, it's practically in their blood to do so, but they were always either goofing off or not out to actually hurt each other. This feels different because it  _is_ different. This is something neither of them have ever done before and it's sending Dean's echoing heartbeat right to his ears so that he can barely hear anything else.

“I am not dad, you hear me? I am not John fucking Winchester. I will never be him, and you can't make me be him just because you lost your only hobby. I don't need your help, and there is no way in Hell that I am ever going back to Lawrence. That place is a sinkhole, Dean, and if you had any sense of self-preservation, you would have left there a long time ago.”

Fuck, it hurts. Everything Sam said is constricting him like a Boa, squeezing him so tightly that he's afraid his head might pop off. Today has not been a good day for what's left of Dean's self-esteem or even his willingness to live. This is some nightmare quality shit that will surely haunt him until the day he's lowered into the ground and he's not quite sure he wants to live that way.

“Fuck you, Sam,” Dean says, his voice breaking and betraying his mask of bravado. “I came here because you deserve to know. Whether you like it or not, he was your dad too. Should have known better than that though, huh? You never did want to be part of our family.”

Sam just smirks, and Dean feels the weight of Sam's scrutiny like he's some kind of insignificant insect, nothing more than a rock in his shoe. This is the worst, this is everything Dean feared would happen and it's so much harder to carry than he imagined.

“Tell me something, Sam,” Dean braves, trying to make himself stand a little taller, “would you even care if I died? What if it had been me, and not dad?”

The smirk on Sam's face falters, turning his features to something cold and stone-like. His eyes narrow and he looks more like a gargoyle than a human, an emotionless brick carved into something worthy of fear. Dean suddenly regrets opening his mouth. He doesn't want to hear the answer. He doesn't want to know without a doubt that Sam hates him or wants nothing more to do with him.

“Quite frankly, Dean, I kind of already assumed you were.”

Yep, this is it. This is the exact moment Dean stops existing. His entire life, everything he's ever done has all been for the happiness and stability of his family. Dean sacrificed all that he could so that Sam wouldn't have to go without. He risked so much to keep Sam safe and happy and healthy. He spent all of his free time helping his father, keeping John from drowning and Sam from pushing him further under the water. It was never easy, but Dean always did it anyway. Now there is nothing to show for it. He has nothing.

Dean's heart doesn't break, because it was already broken. His soul doesn't shatter, because it was already in a scattered pile of little pieces. The Earth doesn't split and swallow him whole, because he's just a single cog in the world's great fractal machine.

Instead, the world and everything in it continues to exist. Grass is still growing. The trees are still restless against the wind. The aching heart in Dean's chest continues to beat as though Sam didn't just impale him with the truth. It's surprising, and yet not at all. God never fails to remind Dean of his worthlessness.

“Ouch,” Dean says, and it's not an exaggeration.

“Goodbye, Dean,” Sam says, and it's more of a command than anything else. Dean doesn't have to be told twice. He doesn't think he could stand to hear any more of Sam's parting words, anyway. He's had about enough to last him the rest of his miserable life.

Dean opens the door with a quick twist of the deadbolt, wondering if he'll ever see his little brother again. Probably not, because this is one trip he never wants to repeat. There's only so much he can take, only so much he can hear before the consequence of loneliness and Winchester solitude isn't as bad as having to go through this bullshit again.

“See ya, Sammy,” Dean says, because even though he knows he won't, he can't bear to say anything else. He's never been that great at goodbyes.

He closes the door behind him and takes a moment to soak up the sun. Dean hates California, he hates the salty wind and he hates the palm trees and the blistering sidewalks. He hates these stupid manicured lawns and luxury apartment communities. He hates Stanford and garbage and drugs. And, though it was a close competition with Ruby for a little while there, he hates himself more than anything else in the universe.

Dean walks toward his Impala, and it's almost a struggle to do so because his legs feel like Jello. He makes it to his Baby without falling or dying, which seems like a mighty success, and gets in behind the wheel. Cas is sitting in the passenger seat, reading one of his books and just acting casual. It's not until he notices that Dean isn't starting the car, or moving, or barely breathing without it looking painful, that Cas finally decides to say something.

“Are you okay?” Cas asks, which is a normal enough question. It's not too personal or invasive, and it's not directly about Sam, who is obviously missing from the equation. It's a safe question, Dean realizes, and an invitation to tell Cas about everything that was said and decided.

Dean could answer. He could tell Cas the truth, that this entire mission had been doomed from the start because Dean is too much of a fucked up loser for it to have gone any differently. He could tell Cas what Sam said, that he doesn't care, that nothing really matters anymore because Dean stopped existing the moment Sam stopped believing in him.

Dean tries to answer, really, but what comes out of him instead of a series of coherent words are a series of punches and screams against the steering wheel.

It's kind of pathetic, just like Sam said. Dean is throwing a fit because he's been stripped of everything else and his rotten core is exposed. He's growling with each punch, his clenched fists hurt and ache with every hit, and the horn blares every time he makes a square enough connection. If people are staring at him, Dean doesn't notice. Cas doesn't try to stop him either, which is a small fucking mercy considering everything he's lost. At least he gets to have this tantrum, these short minutes of gratifying rage that are counteracting the perfect storm swelling in his cavernous chest.

His arms are tired by the time he's done, and he's pretty sure he's got a few broken fingers. His knuckles were already raw from his constant knocking earlier, and now they are purpled with bruises that spread all over the back of his hands. Dean can barely extend any of his fingers without wincing and sucking in painful breaths.

Cas reaches over slowly, but not out of fearfulness. He looks calm and confident, probably trying to make up for what Dean lacks, and traces a careful finger over the uneven ridges of Dean's banged up knuckles. “Would you like me to drive?”

Dean looks down at his hands, which might actually need medical attention, and nods. His fingertips are tingly and numb, his palms are throbbing and everything else is blackened with bleeding shadows beneath the skin. He's so fucking grateful for Cas that it isn't even funny. It's not about their relationship, it's just so damn refreshing to have someone not ask the obvious questions.

Cas leans over Dean and opens his door for him, and Dean gets out of the car and walks around to the passenger seat. It's strange to be sitting on this side of the car. He hasn't been a passenger in his Baby since he was a teenager, back when his dad could still drive, and no one else has ever driven her. Part of him wants to tell Cas how significant it is that he gets to drive, but he keeps his mouth shut. Now isn't the time for playful conversation.

Of course, there's always the possibility that Cas is so patient and understanding because he knows he won't have to put up with Dean much longer. If the roles were reversed, if Dean were wealthy and hot and a goddamn ninja, he'd probably ditch himself too as soon as they got back to Lawrence. This whole trip was probably too much for their new relationship, and he can't blame Cas for wanting out. Dean won't even try to stop him if that's what happens.

Cas starts the car, and it feels good to hear his Baby rumble to life. “Are you up for a little friendly competition, Dean?”

No, not really. Dean isn't up for much of anything right now, but the look on Cas' face has him intrigued. And hey, Cas isn't pestering him about what happened with Sam or nagging him to see a doctor about his hands, so the least he can do is humor the guy.

“What did you have in mind?”

Cas smiles, and it's the first smile Dean has seen all day that doesn't look horribly out of place.

“Well, I had this thought. You know how when people go on road trips, they usually like to stay in nice places and see the most notable attractions? I thought we could do the opposite,” Cas explains, even though it doesn't really make sense. What does he mean, the opposite?

Dean just lifts his eyebrow to signal his confusion, so Cas continues, “You know, instead of finding the nice places, we could compete to see who can find the worst motel rooms and eateries. I've already found our first motel for tonight and I'm betting you won't be able to find a worst place. It's practically begging for a one-star review.”

Dean is dumbfounded for a moment, because he's pretty sure that it's the greatest idea he's ever heard and that Cas is the most perfect human being in all of existence. It's unbelievable that Dean has somehow found him and got to keep him, especially when everything else in his life is so dreary and bleak. It scares him how easily he could lose Cas, how quickly he could slip through Dean's (broken) fingers.

“I've stayed in some pretty terrible places, Cas, I don't know if you really want to challenge me on this,” Dean says, his voice surprisingly light and coltish. Maybe he's finally snapped from all of the pressure, from all of the fear and sadness and disappointment, but Dean simply can't find it in himself to act upset. He is upset, deeply so, but a man can only be broken so many times before the cracks and crevices become a part of his character.

Cas winks, and Dean thinks that maybe he will survive this nonsense after all.

Dean buckles with some difficulty, he can't move all of his fingers and it's starting to really hurt. Everything hurts, though, so at least he can appreciate the way his body matches his tender, damaged insides.

“You'll tell me if you need to see a doctor, won't you?” Cas says, tilting his gaze toward Dean's hands.

Dean just shrugs. “I should probably see one, right? I guess it's not a good sign that I can't move some of my fingers.”

Fear and worry flashes across Cas' face, and while normally that might frustrate Dean and make him feel like a wimp, he accepts it. He's spent his whole life worrying about everyone else, putting them first and gluing them together when they fell apart, and in the end they all left him to fend for himself. Maybe it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world to let someone worry about him for a change.

Cas reins in his concern and looks up a nearby hospital on his fancy-ass phone. Cas, bless him, doesn't even bother suggesting the Stanford hospital, knowing full well that Dean probably doesn't want to go there or have anything to do with Stanford ever again. Unfortunately, none of the other hospitals that Cas suggests sound good either. Dean doesn't want to go to a crowded waiting room or even to a massive hospital where they would charge him triple what a smaller hospital would charge.

“How about you just take me to a drug store or something for now, and I'll get some ice packs and some bandage wrap to hold me over until we're out of California,” Dean suggests, wiggling his fingers as evidence that it's probably not too bad or broken. The pain is starting to ebb, which is a good sign, and he can move all of his fingers with enough concentration.

Cas shrugs, trying not to look too disbelieving, and pulls out of the apartment complex's parking lot. Dean doesn't want to think about the fact that he'll never see his brother again, he'll never get to repair their broken relationship, and sooner or later he'll end up getting a call informing him that Sam has overdosed. He shifts his attention to Cas, who looks downright sexy behind the wheel of his Baby, and pushes all thoughts of Sam out of his mind.

It's not that he's over it, or even close to accepting it, but it's all he can manage to do right now. Dean will deal with this later, when he's good and ready to, and not a moment sooner. Until then, this entire trip so far has been tucked away into a small cardboard box in his mind, on a shelf the rest of the memories he hasn't been able to deal with yet.

It's a survival mechanism in the most basic form, compartmentalization, because he's such a shit. What Dean would give to have a fraction of the strength everyone else seems to have. Cas especially.

But they don't stop once they're out of California. Cas keeps driving, stopping only to refuel and grab them each some snacks and a drink. They drive all the way through Nevada, passing by Humboldt General and Battle Mountain General, even Northeastern Nevada Regional Hospital without a second glance. Dean's hands are feeling relatively fine, and after the first six hours of driving he barely notices the lingering pain at all. Cas doesn't pester him about it or even give him that old pitiful look to make him feel bad. He treats Dean exactly the way he wants to be treated, which is mostly to be ignored.

It's not until they crawl into Salt Lake City in the late hours of the night, pulling into the shittiest looking motel that Dean has ever seen, that it really starts to hit him. He's the last Winchester left, basically, because it's only a matter of time before Sam crashes and burns. With the way every Winchester has fallen off the map in horrific style, Dean wonders what his own death will be like. With his luck he'll probably die on the way home, rolling off a cliff or off a bridge or something equally prolonged and grimly frightening.

And somehow Ruby knew about Dean's darkest secret. He hasn't even begun to consider how that's a possibility, unless Sam somehow knew all this time as well and decided to tell her like the backstabbing douche-moose he is. Cas heard the vague threat, and sooner or later he's going to ask Dean to explain what she was talking about and why it upset him so much. Fuck, he hopes he can come up with a good way to sideline that conversation until...well,  _never_ .

Dean really hopes that Ruby bites the fucking dust first, because nothing would make him happier right now than to see that bitch riding the pine into Hell, and if there is a merciful God up there somewhere, she'll die and take Dean's secret down with her. 

 


	15. Chapter 15

When Cas claimed to have found the world's shittiest motel, he wasn't joking.

It's small, maybe a total of ten rooms and rents by the hour. The Bridger Motel, it's called, and is reportedly one of the first established in the city. It's really just a monumental piece of crap, and Dean isn't sure if he can actually think of place he's stayed that was worse. Sure, he's stayed in his car and under bridges and once in a tree, but those places all seem like better options than the nightmare before him, heavily painted in an ugly dark brown.

The inside is even worse than the outside, which is amazing considering just how terrible the outside is, and Dean is certain that he's already lost the competition. The carpet is a simple blue, but heavily discolored with large red and brown stains that look like amoebas creeping across the floor. Huge, almost star-like rosettes bloom across the peeling wallpaper, faded and bleeding into the sea-foam green background. It actually looks like it might have been pretty once, could be pretty still, if it weren't for the decades of poor maintenance and high traffic. The bed is small, not quite quite queen sized but bigger than a twin, large enough for two people so long as they don't feel like cuddling afterward. The sheets are gold and nearly as stained as the carpet.

The bathroom is so bad that it's almost hilarious. There are floor-to-ceiling white tiles lined with gross, grimy grout that probably hasn't been cleaned since it was first installed. There's more of that red-brown smattering all along the corner opposite of the toilet, like something right out of a crime scene photo. Dean is convinced that someone was murdered here and management didn't feel like cleaning it up. It's simultaneously the worst and best place ever, because it's so bad that Dean doesn't even know if he wants to stay the night here and yet so brilliantly amazing because Cas is the single greatest human on the planet.

When Cas sits on the bed, it groans and squeaks and drops an inch. Cas laughs and bounces up and down a bit, testing the bed, and to no one's surprise it whines with every movement. It's an old, thin mattress full of rusty springs and probably a gallon of dried semen. Cas doesn't even seem to care, his expression is light and jovial and he's still laughing. Only a few days ago, he would have carved out his own eyes at the sight of this place. Dean isn't sure what changed in that short amount of time, but he's glad it did. It's nice to make fun of these terrible little motels with someone.

Dean drops his duffel bag onto the floor, because there's no desk or table or any kind of useable surface, then sits beside Cas on the bed. The weight of both their bodies on the bed frame makes it sound like the moaning of an old house, creaking and almost cracking like arthritic bones. It's kind of endearing and Dean feels bad for the place, but not quite as bad as he feels for Cas. He's got to be putting on a brave face for all of this and he's doing it simply to make Dean feel better. It's just a shitty little motel but it's still a greater sacrifice than he's used to people making for him. Dean doesn't want to think about that or anything else too hard right now.

Cas' hand slowly makes its way to the back of Dean's neck, his warm fingers rubbing and pinching at Dean's nape in a way that makes him want to melt into an amorphous puddle like the stains on the carpet. Cas does this sometimes, massaging Dean's neck with an expert grip and warm, fluid movements. Dean really doesn't deserve Cas, he doesn't deserve any of the love sparking between them or the comforting physical reassurances that he's not alone. What he does deserve is usually what he gets, what he's used to, like the bruises on his hands or the shadow where his heart used to be. He doesn't deserve it, but God he wants to keep it.

Later, they're laying beside each other on the bed, Cas snugly curled around Dean like a blanket since neither of them were brave enough to slip beneath the covers. Cas is breathing steadily, his soft belly pressing into Dean's back with every deep inhale. Their hands are woven together and cradled just above Dean's navel. He can't sleep, even though he feels dead tired with lead-heavy lids and slow, dragging thoughts. He knows that time hasn't stopped, that the world is still spinning around the Sun like it should, but he can't quiet the persistent nagging from that stupid cricket. Whether it's his conscience, or some kind of inner monologue or intuition is irrelevant at this point because all it ever does is remind him why he can't be happy. Except now, the only name it sings relentlessly is _SamSamSamSam_ and there's no way Dean can fall asleep with that echoing around in his skull.

The way Dean feels now is a little different than he's ever felt before. He's more than familiar with the hollow aching, the empty longing and the general feeling of despair, but this new sensation is more like an itching or prickling that he can't scratch. His heart feels like a foreign object in his chest, like his body is fighting against it with every antibody and white blood cell it can spare. If he didn't know any better, he'd guess that he developed some kind of autoimmune disease in which his body no longer recognizes the heart as one of its own organs, attacking it and trying to force it out. It tingles and tickles his rib cage and makes him feel sick to his stomach all at once.

When Sam left the first time, Dean died. Not in the literal sense, of course, but he essentially ceased to exist in the same way that some friendships flicker out and end without either party realizing it. Dean sank to the bottom of the lake and stayed there, letting the misery fill his lungs and eyes and ears. He let the misery grow on his flesh like algae, he let the rocks and the mud grow around him until he became part of the scenery. It was easy to be hollowed out and used like a plaything for the other creatures, like a ceramic castle at the bottom of a fish tank. Then Lisa came along and changed all that. She revived him and showed him that he could have a life outside of the limited world that had been constructed for him.

But she left, and Dean sank once again. She was the breath of air that helped him rise to the surface, to see the sunlight and float on the shimmering waves coated in golds and whites. Without her, there was nothing keeping him up there, nothing filling his lungs with sweet relief. Dean had completely forgotten what that was like until Cas came around and reminded him. Cas didn't just bring Dean to the surface, he pulled him completely out of the water and onto the light-soaked beaches. And, despite the many times Dean tried to let himself sink again, Cas was there to keep him up. He's like some kind of reverse anchor, if such a thing exists, holding Dean steady and strong.

That was before the whole mess that occurred today, or yesterday now, before Dean knew just how alone and isolated he really is. Dean could get through each day thinking about Sam being happier, living the dream he always dreamt for himself. He was so angry at Sam, so hurt and betrayed by him leaving the way he did, but there was never enough anger to drown out the hope that Sam might come back or even apologize. Now those wistful little sprouts of optimism are trampled, completely mashed into the dirt and crushed. There's no reviving them, and Dean knows it. No way to go back in time and pretend like everything is going to be okay.

It's what makes his current state of being so fascinating to him. Here he is, laying on top of a dusty old mattress in a filthy motel room, surrounded by threadbare blues and pinks and golds, breathing and thinking and miraculously being held. His worst fear was realized and shoved in his face, down his throat, and yet he's not dead or dying or sinking. Dean is alive, and he is loved. The sun set and will rise in the morning, and his life will continue when he gets back to Lawrence. Everything is different now, but life will continue on much the same.

Dean doesn't know how to feel about that, but he thinks that's okay. He doesn't really have to know because it's not going to make a difference anyway. Whether he's sad or angry or happy, whether he's lonely or loved, he's going to age and grow and die eventually, just like everyone else.

Maybe this is what Bobby meant when he said happiness is a choice. There was no way Dean was going to believe that bullshit the first time Bobby said it, right after Lisa left and Dean sank further than he had ever been. Bobby sure tried to pull him up and revive him, mostly with cliches and pep talks about how people don't have to be sad if they don't want to. Right, like Dean would have ever wasted that much time sulking in gloom and grief if he had a choice. Like happiness was some kind of switch he could just flip on and off on a whim. The whole idea seemed so ridiculous at the time, but now Dean thinks he might finally get it.

Happiness isn't so much a switch as it is a shift – it's not something to be turned on and off as one pleases, but rather a gear one can put themselves in to make the drive easier. He's going to grow old one way or the other, he's going to work and sleep and eat regardless of how he feels about it, so he might as well enjoy every blasted moment of it because there's no getting this time back. Dean tried the misery route for a long time, he tried soaking his feelings in whiskey and lighting them on fire but the damn things always came crawling back like charred little parasites.

Cas is here even though Dean doesn't deserve it, and somehow they've managed to fall in love with each other very quickly and despite the turbulent circumstances. Dean should be grateful he has someone at all, that a person like Cas even exists and wants to spend his time with a depressed, self-centered asshole. Cas could have easily just left, he  _should_ have left, but instead he chose to stay and cheer Dean up by finding this dump of a room and renting it.

That's worth being happy about, even if everything else has gone to Hell in a hand-basket.

Thinking about Sam will always hurt. Even if his brother magically gets better and sobers up, returns to school and lives a long, healthy life, Dean will always feel that pang of guilt and longing for failing him so horribly. He will always miss his brother, his best friend, his partner in crime for all those years on the road. There will also always be that sting of loneliness, because Sam was the only other person in the world who understood Dean without needing an explanation. Sam had been there for everything, had gone through all the same pain and hardships right next to Dean and knew what it was like. He never had to explain himself to his brother, never had to make excuses for why he hated certain things or why he could never sleep alone. Sam was the only one with the same set of memories and experiences, so to live a life without him still feels wrong and incomplete.

There's nothing Dean can do about that, though. He tried, he really did, but there's only so much he can do and he's tired. This is the first time in Dean's life that he's ever considered living his life for himself, to choose to be happy and explore the things in life he's always longed for. It makes the itching in his heart intensify, that weird sensation like his body is fighting itself like a foreign enemy, but he'll get used to it. It's either that or sink again, and Dean knows that if he lets himself drift back to the bottom of the ocean floor, he'll never resurface.

Dean doesn't want that, not really. He's not in love with the pain and sadness like some people are, he doesn't need the sorrow to complete him like it's a part of his genetic makeup. Dean loves being happy, loves having reasons to get up in the morning and smile. It's why he clings to his Baby and his rock music and makes stupid jokes that no one laughs at. It's even why he smokes and sings and writes love notes.

And, you know what? He's not a little kid anymore. He went through all those years of not having a choice, of not getting to decide where to live or where to go to school, of being helpless and hungry and living like a damn tumbleweed. Dean is an adult with a job and fully capable of living his life for himself. He always pictured John and Sam in his life, but shit happens and it's not necessarily Dean's fault. He can make his own choices now without their input and do what makes him happy.

Speaking of that – Cas makes him more than happy than he deserves. Ergo, he can do Cas.

Dean rolls over on the bed, facing Cas, and carefully disentangles their fingers so he can lift a hand and run a finger along Cas' brow. His face twitches somewhat at the touch, but otherwise he's still soundly asleep and dead to the world. His breaths are a little noisy, not quite a full snore but a little throaty nonetheless. Dean lets his thumb drag across the side of Cas' face, over his cheek and to his chin, then plants a soft, steady kiss on Cas' slightly parted lips.

He doesn't wake, and Dean wonders what he's dreaming about, if anything at all. Dean changes his mind, not wanting to disturb Cas while he gets some much needed rest. Dean wishes he could be sleeping too, but there's just too much on his mind and in his heart to be able to slip into that unconscious respite. Despite all the bullshit he's had to endure in his lifetime, he's never had a problem with being able to fall asleep as long as there was someone nearby, so he's not entirely sure what to do with himself right now. How do insomniacs pass the time?

They're in a smoking room, but Dean knows that Cas isn't a fan of cigarette smoke and it wouldn't exactly be fair to light up in the motel room while Cas sleeps, nor does Dean want to get dressed and go outside where he'd likely be mugged or kidnapped for his body parts. There's no way he wants to risk waking up in an ice-filled bathtub to discover that one of his kidneys is gone, especially since he's fairly certain he needs both of them to maintain his smoking and drinking habits.

Instead, he slips off the bed as quietly as he can, which isn't all that quiet since the bed is ridiculously old and squeaky, and rummages through his duffel bag for something to do.

The motel is so shitty that there's not even a television or wireless internet, and he doesn't have a fancy phone with games and apps other than Snake, which is a fun game and all, but he's already played it like a million times and he's not in the mood for it. Dean needs something a little less mindless to occupy his thoughts and distract the annoying cricket that never seems to shut the fuck up.

Dean remembers then that there's a book in his jacket, the book he stole from Sam's place with that god-forsaken passage highlighted, and he figures he might as well read the rest of it to put it into context.

The cover of the book is a bit more bent up after spending the day in his pocket, but Dean doesn't care. It's not like he plans on returning it to Sam when he's done with it.

There's nowhere to sit other than on the bed, since it's pretty much the first motel room in the history of motel rooms not to have a chair or table or even a dresser, so he props some of the flat, musty pillows up behind him against the headboard and leans back, letting himself relax. He opens the book to the first chapter and begins to read.

* * * * *

“Dean.”

He startles awake, sharply inhaling and blinking against the harsh overhead light. He's already sitting up, but something slides off of his torso and falls to the ground with a papery thud.

“Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you.”

Cas is standing beside the bed, fully dressed in a pair of worn jeans and a blue, tight fitting long-sleeved shirt. It reminds Dean of that time in the garage – seems like ages ago now – when he first saw Cas in a tight t-shirt that really showed off his figure. Dean would totally be turned on if he weren't so caught off-guard and still shaking off the last remnants of sleep. Cas reaches down and picks up the thing that fell to the floor, the book, and hands it back to Dean with a smile.

“I didn't know you were reading this. I read it in high school as part of our assigned book list,” Cas says, staring fondly at the cover, “It's very dark, but I enjoyed it. It's one of those books that makes you really reflect on life.”

Dean looks down at the book in his hands, trying to remember how many pages he managed to read before he fell asleep. Dean never really read anything in high school, mostly because they moved around too much and each school seemed to have a different list of required reading. He probably could have taken advantage of that and become a well-read person, but it just didn't seem important at the time. “I, uh, just started it. Last night. I'm not really sure what it's about yet.”

Cas' face tries to express several different emotions at once, and it's kind of funny. “Oh,” he finally says, flicking a corner of the book with his finger, “I thought maybe you'd read it a lot, since it's so worn down. Plus, the subject of the book is rather specific and intense, not something a person would usually pick out casually. It's the author's account of his experience in concentration camps during the Holocaust.”

Knowing that makes Dean feel a little sick about taking it, but he still doesn't regret it. Sam has obviously read the book a million times, so there's got to be something interesting and meaningful between all the morbid parts, right? “I took it from Sam's place, actually,” Dean confesses, setting the book on the bed to free up his hands, “I don't know why. Just took it on impulse, I guess.”

Cas nods, but changes the subject quickly. Dean can't tell what exactly Cas is trying to avoid talking about, but he doesn't push the issue. “Well, it's time to get up. As much as I would love to stay here again, I have another surprise for you. A fun one.”

Dean isn't one to turn down fun surprises, and for a moment he secretly hopes it has something to do with sex, but that suspicion doesn't last long because Cas reaches over onto the bed and grabs a folded stack of Dean's clothes, setting them on his lap with a wink. “I hope you don't mind I picked out your clothes today.”

Dean rolls his eyes. Of all the things to care about in the world, Cas picking out his clothes isn't one of them. Besides, it's just jeans and one of his Zeppelin shirts. No big fucking deal. He gets out of bed and stretches, then puts the clothes on followed by his shoes. “I hope the surprise involves food. I'm starving,” Dean whines, his stomach growling with emphasis.

“Me too. The surprise isn't until later today, though, so we can go out to eat wherever you want first.”

They finish packing up all their belongings, which doesn't take long since they barely unpacked to begin with, and check out of the blood-stained motel. Dean debates back and forth with himself about where he wants to eat, unable to decide between a place like Denny's or somewhere he's never been to before. Cas offers a few suggestions, but nothing quite sounds right. They end up driving around town for about thirty minutes, deciding to stop and eat at whatever place happens to catch their eye.

They stumble upon a humble looking diner that looks like a mix between a restaurant and a pastry shop, which is pretty much Dean's ultimate wet dream. It's called The Cookie Jar, which is another indication that it's heaven on Earth, and Dean is practically drooling with anticipation as he looks over the menu.

“They have over twenty kinds of pie, Cas. Holy fucking shit.”

Cas laughs, totally unconcerned that Dean just cussed in public. He looks over his own menu, reading about each flavor of pie and all the other breakfast foods they offer. The waitress finally comes by to take their order, and she's kinda hot for someone that looks old enough to be his mom. Dean orders a slice of pecan pie to go with his sausage, eggs, and hash browns. Cas gets an omelet with a side of wheat toast, which he smothers with butter and blackberry jam.

“Waitress is hot, huh?” Cas jokes when he catches Dean getting an eyeful of the back of her skirt. Dean blushes and looks away, worried that he's upset Cas or something. But Cas doesn't look upset, he's actually smiling and glancing at the waitress himself. When he turns to look at Dean's reddened face, he reaches across the table and places his hand over Dean's, then says, “Life is too short not to look at what we want, right? If anything, you should point out what you see so I can enjoy it too.”

Dean is torn between laughing and crying. It's funny because it's so fucking true, he should be allowed to look at whatever he wants because looking ain't cheating, but at the same time it's a little worrying that Cas might not care if he ogles other people in front of him. Dammit, feelings are confusing.

“No touching,” Cas clarifies, his face getting serious, “I don't like to share.”

“I get all tingly when you get possessive like that, Cas,” Dean jokes, shoving a forkful of delicious pie in his mouth.

They enjoy their breakfast, eating as much as they possibly can. Dean is so full by the end of it that he gets the hiccups, which Cas thinks is the most hilarious thing he's ever seen. Dean would think it's funny too if it weren't so painful, but as far as he's concerned, it's a worthy sacrifice to make in the name of heavenly food.

Cas leaves a generous tip for the waitress and they head out the door. When they make it to the Impala, Dean gets in but Cas pauses with his hand on the passenger door. He excuses himself, telling Dean that he'll be right back because he thinks he forgot something inside. It's a poor act because Dean can see right through it, but he tells Cas to go ahead while he starts the car and gets it warmed up.

Sure enough, Cas comes back out of The Cookie Jar about fifteen minutes later with an oversized bag and a broad smile on his face. He puts the bag on the back seat, then gets in the front beside Dean. “I may have splurged a little.”

“What did you get?” Dean asks, surprisingly eager and curious for someone who is stuffed full to the brim with food already.

“Two pies, and some pastries. I got a chocolate pecan pie and a strawberry rhubarb one. My mom used to make rhubarb pies when we were little. She had a garden and grew her own fruits and vegetables.”

“Wow, that's pretty cool. My mom used to make pies, too,” Dean says, and while the statements seems mostly harmless and innocuous, both he and Cas realize that it's one of the rare times Dean has ever willingly shared information about his mother.

Cas tries not to make a big deal out of it, in the same strange way he's been avoiding anything too heavy since they left Ruby's apartment yesterday, but Dean knows him well enough now to tell that Cas' curiosity is piqued.

“I'd love to hear more about your mother, Dean,” Cas practically whispers, trying to be extremely gentle with his words as if he's afraid to scare Dean off like a timid animal. He appreciates that Cas hasn't been nosy or too forward about it, but he's not ready to talk about his mom. She's a sacred memory that shouldn't be tarnished by Dean's bad story telling.

“Yeah, maybe another time,” Dean answers, not quite fully dismissing Cas' interest. It's been a long enough week already and Dean is kinda tired of all the intensity and drama for now. Talking about his mom seems like it would only add to that, or it could lead into discussions about John or Sam and he's really not wanting to discuss either of them for the time being. Cas looks a little let down, but Dean knows he'll survive it.

Dean thought that they'd be heading out of town now, back toward Lawrence on the last leg of their road trip, but Cas insists that they stay in the city for the day so they don't miss the surprise. Dean is starting to get really curious and impatient, and even considers comically batting his eyes at Cas until he gives in and tells Dean what the big deal is. He suspects that Cas is a little more solid steel than that, so he doesn't even bother trying. He gives in to the day and lets Cas tell him where to go.

They drive around and look at some of the more notable attractions, enjoying the scenic mountain views and the large, intricate buildings. Cas gets stupidly excited to see the the Salt Lake Temple, some huge Mormon church or something, because he's such a religious geek and apparently can't control himself. Dean has to admit that the building is rather impressive, along with the ten acres it sits on, but he's never been into religion or churches so he can't share Cas' enthusiasm. It's kind of cute how bug-eyed Cas is, ogling the site like he's never seen anything so amazing so before. Damn, Dean kinda wishes Cas would look at  _him_ that way sometimes.

They park and have lunch in the car, if several slices of pie can be considered lunch, that is, and then explore the rest of the city. By the time the late afternoon rolls around, Dean is pretty fucking bored of looking at the city. In Dean's experience, if you've seen one state capital you've seen them all, and this extra long tour of Salt Lake City hasn't exactly changed his mind on that.

“Ready for your surprise?” Cas asks when his watch beeps at four, and holy shit, yes, Dean is ready.

“Please,” Dean pleads, tilting his head toward Cas, “anything other than driving around this place some more. I'm bored outta my mind.”

Cas laughs and lets his hand rest on Dean's thigh, which feels like a damn teaser because once again he's not sure if the surprise includes sex, but then Cas gives him directions on where to go. They drive for about twenty minutes until they reach a crowded stadium, where people are climbing out of their cars with dark green jerseys on. Dean starts getting excited, because he loves sports, but he's still not sure what the surprise is or even what's going on inside the stadium. Jerseys mean a sports team, right?

“I hope you like hockey,” Cas says with a wry smile, gently squeezing Dean's leg, “I got us a couple of front row seats, right on the glass. But first we need to get you in a team jersey.”

Dean was raised mostly on football like any other red-blooded American boy, and he didn't get a lot of exposure to other sports because he never got to stay at one school long enough to join a team or go to any of the games. Lisa was a big fan of the St. Louis Blues and insisted on watching every single one of their games, so Dean would watch it with her and it was pretty fun. He liked the fast pace, but he's never seen an actual game in person. He has to hold himself back from taking Cas in the Impala right here in the parking lot, because if Cas were any more perfect he'd be in a goddamn museum.

“I've never been to a real hockey game before,” Dean says stupidly, turning off the car and hopping out with too much excitement. Cas is smugly pleased with himself, and takes Dean's hand in his own as they walk toward the main doors. Normally Dean would be apprehensive about holding Cas' hand in public, he's never been big on public displays of affection and he's pretty sure Utah isn't known for its love of homosexuality, but right now he couldn't care less about other people or what they think. God, he is just so, so lucky to have Cas in his life and he's tired of wasting this time together on worrying about shit he can't control. He's going to a real fucking hockey game, and Cas said something about buying him a jersey, and he's just so damn happy about it that the cricket in his chest actually shuts the fuck up for the first time ever.

Serves that little bastard right, anyway.

The stadium is awesome, there's tons of seats and concession stands up everywhere, vending machines and little attractions for the people who are apparently not satisfied with just watching a game of hockey. Cas has never been here before either, so they have to wander around a bit before they find the gift shop where all the team merchandise is. They try on several of the jerseys, and Cas insists that Dean get the home jersey that's mostly dark green  _because it matches his eyes_ , and while it feels a little silly to be wearing an oversized shirt with a giant grizzly on it, he'd be lying if he said it wasn't also a lot of fun.

Cas doesn't even give Dean a chance to offer to pay for them, because he takes the two jerseys up to the counter while Dean is sidetracked by all the pucks, sticks and mugs behind a glass shelf. It's a good thing, too, because apparently the jerseys were $130 each and Dean would have spontaneously released his bowels if he had to pay that much. He feels kinda bad letting Cas pay that much money for a couple of shirts, but he doesn't want to ruin the good mood they're both in by complaining about something Cas clearly doesn't care about. And, yeah, Cas is also rich enough to afford the damn things, so he lets Cas treat him to something pricey like he talked about before.

They rip off the tags and slip the jerseys on over their shirts, then find their seats. Cas wasn't kidding when he said they had seats right up on the glass, because Dean is sitting right there  _on the fucking glass,_ he can reach out and touch it and dear baby-Jesus-in-a-manger it is glorious.

“You hungry?” Cas asks, looking up toward the rest of the filling seats behind them.

Dean isn't actually all that hungry, he's still kinda full on the massive amount of pie he's eaten today, but no sports experience would be complete without a little stadium food. “Yeah, I could go for something. What do they got here?”

“I'm in the mood for some churros, and some beer. That sound good to you?” Dean nods his approval, so Cas continues, “Okay, I'll be right back. Sit tight and don't let any cute locals flirt with you.”

Dean rolls his eyes at that, so when Cas plants a kiss right on his mouth, he's not prepared for it. He accepts it, but he can feel the embarrassment turn his face rose red. There are thousands of other people here in the stadium, and any one of them could be some kind of homophobic asshole ready to pounce on the opportunity to shame them.

Except no one around them says anything. No one seems to care.

Cas darts off in search of food and alcohol, so Dean takes a moment to breathe and center himself in a weak attempt to stop being so embarrassed. Apparently he's making a bigger deal out of it than anyone else, because if anyone saw them kiss, they didn't care enough to stop them or even make little noises of disgust. Dean isn't new to the whole sex-with-guys thing, but he is new to open relationships with them and it still feels like a learning process.

When Cas comes back, he's got his arm full of goodies. Apparently churros and beer weren't enough, he also grabbed some kettle corn and a bag of peanuts. “I couldn't resist,” Cas sighs, sitting in his seat and doling out the food, “I'm a sucker for kettle corn.”

“And peanuts?”

“Aren't peanuts a staple food for any sporting event? Seemed wrong to watch a game without them.”

“You're probably right,” Dean smiles, opening the bag and popping a few in his mouth, “thanks, Cas.”

“My pleasure.” The smile on Cas' face is unfettered and beautiful, and Dean is about to lean over and kiss the intoxicating smile off of his face, but he's interrupted when the lights go dim and the music starts.

Hockey is Dean's new favorite sport, hands down.

The first period flew by in a blur of fast-skating athletes and high-speed pucks bouncing off the plexiglass. The players were shoving each other into the boards, knocking each other down and at one point two of them even threw off their gloves and got into a fist fight. The Grizzlies made two goals in the first twenty minutes, and Dean had never seen a crowd of people go so wild. The buzzer would blare and music would echo through the building as everyone jumped up to their feet and pumped their fists in the air. It was loud, intense, and pretty much the most fun that Dean has had in years.

During the first intermission, funny videos of the cameras scanning the audience were played on the giant center screen to help pass the time. Cas draped an arm over the back of Dean's chair and rested his head on Dean's shoulder. Dean felt that initial moment of shock and apprehension, but then he decided to just let himself have it. Fuck anyone who dares to disgrace this sweet moment between him and the most perfect man in the world - not that he'd ever admit out loud just how sweet he thinks the moment is.

Dean turns his head just enough so that he can kiss the top of Cas' head, and munches on some kettle corn as he watches the overhead screen. After the first five minutes of intermission passes, romantic music starts playing and the screen reads  _Kiss Cam!_ Dean isn't really sure what that means until he sees couples being caught on camera. Once the couple sees themselves on the screen, they kiss each other and the crowd cheers them on. It's even really funny the few times the camera guy gets it wrong and zooms in on two people who are not actually a couple.

Dean stops paying attention after a few minutes, more interested in thinking about how wonderful Cas is for doing all of this for him. Even though Cas' arm is already over his shoulder, Dean takes Cas' other free hand and holds it in his.

Then someone is tapping their shoulder, and Dean is about to get pissed off when he hears them say, “Look, dude! You're on the screen!”

Sure enough, the guy wasn't lying. Dean and Cas are on the Kiss Cam and the entire stadium starts to cheer them on when they don't immediately kiss. Dean lets go of Cas' hand, turning red and beyond mortified, which only causes the crowd to cheer harder and louder. Cas sits up straight, takes Dean's face in his hands, and kisses him with as much fervor as he can possibly muster. The crowd goes absolutely wild, people behind them are clapping them on the shoulders and Dean gets lost in the moment, kissing Cas back with an open, hungry mouth and smiling into it.

Then the moment passes, the camera switches to another unsuspecting couple with more cheers from the stadium full of hockey fans.

“That was awesome,” Dean laughs, breaking the kiss and resting his forehead against Cas'.

“Agreed,” Cas says, almost breathless. He looks as blissfully content as Dean feels.

As weird as it was, it was so liberating to be put on display in front of that many people, being able to kiss his boyfriend so publicly like that and actually be accepted. He never figured Utah would be a place of homosexual acceptance, but maybe Cas was right. Maybe most people don't actually care and just want to see other people be happy.

The next two periods fly by much the same as the first, except halfway through the third period, one of the refs got hit in the face with a puck, splattering his blood all over the ice. Watching hockey in person like this almost makes him feel like he's in a colosseum, looking on as the fighters in the arena battle to the death, their fists and blood flying everywhere. Dean isn't a big fan of violence, but there's just something about the intensity that really speaks to him. He loves it, and when they get back to Kansas, he'll have to do some research and see if there's any nearby hockey teams he and Cas can go see regularly.

By the time the game is over, Dean is exhausted. It had been one hell of a week, and then truly one hell of a day, and he was more than ready to call it night and curl up in a comfy bed somewhere. It's Dean's turn to find a terrible motel for them to stay at, so he steals Cas' phone and does some searching on the internet for a place that might actually beat The Bridger, but he doesn't find much.

And, on second thought, Dean would much rather be able to sleep in a bed that doesn't give him six different diseases.

“How about we skip our little competition for tonight, and get a decent place to stay? Maybe even somewhere with a kitchenette? You've cooked me breakfast before, so I'd like to return the favor,” Dean explains, looking up from the phone and into Cas' sapphire eyes. Fuck, all this giddy happiness is starting to make him feel like a girl.

“I'd like that,” Cas answers, taking his phone back and looking a new place up. “I know it's your turn to pick, but I've heard some good things about this place and they have a kitchenette.” He tilts the screen toward Dean so he can see.

“Works for me.” Dean lets Cas give him the turn by turn directions toward the motel. It's nothing fancy, but it's nowhere hear as bad as the Bridger and that's all Dean really wanted. They arrive at the Deseret Inn, a simple looking motel painted yellow and white with a honeybee on the logo. Cas pays for their room, they get the key and then park the Impala near their door.

The inside is equally simple but clean, with a king sized bed and neutrally painted walls. There's a small television and a couple of night stands, and the bathroom is large with an oversized tub and complimentary shampoo. Dean was too chicken-shit to take a shower at the last place, so he'll definitely be needing one in the morning before they leave, and at least now he won't have to be afraid of the rusty water or, you know, being murdered.

As they unpack their essentials, Dean has a fleeting thought that the only thing that could have made this day better would have been if Sam could have been there to join in on the fun. He has to correct himself, though, because there's no way that would have ever been true. That damn cricket is reawakened, and somehow it manages to blur the lines between reality and fantasy. Yeah, it would have been really nice to have enjoyed this day without having to worry about what Sam is doing, but the truth is that the day was just fine without Sam being in attendance or even being sober. The day was more than fine, actually, it was damn near one of the best days of Dean's life and he's not going to let thoughts of Sam ruin that for him.

He slips under the covers beside Cas, who has the rhubarb pie in his lap and the remote in his hand, surfing through the channels while picking little bites off the pie crust. Even though nothing major happened, Dean really does feel like today is one of the best days he's ever had, and he has Cas to thank for that.

Dean leans over and plants bantam kisses on Cas' bare shoulder. Cas stops what he's doing and looks at Dean with a curious smile on his face.

“Cas, I – thank you, really. Today was freaking awesome.”

“You're welcome, Dean. I like making you happy.”

“I never got to do that kind of stuff growing up, you know? It was, uh...it was a lot of fun. No one has ever taken me to a game before. I don't know what I would do without you.”

The last part of Dean's girly confession slipped out by accident, but Cas beamed with so much pride and pleasure that he couldn't take it back or play it off as a joke.

“Actually, Dean, I don't really know. You don't talk about your life very much,” Cas replies, and even though the topic is more serious now, he's still talking with a smile one his face. “But if you ever want to talk about it, I'm more than willing to listen.”

Dean doesn't really want to turn their evening into a chick-flick moment, so he just nods and steals a bite of the rhubarb pie off of Cas' fork. Cas gives him a look of fake shock, then gets another chunk of pie and feeds it to Dean.

Being fed pie while laying in a huge bed, watching reruns of CSI and not worrying about John or Sam or anyone else in the world, truly feels like the best way to possible to end their day.

He really doesn't know what he would do without Cas. He doesn't even want to think about what life would be like without him. Dean takes a moment to pray to whatever God might be listening, to please,  _please_ not ever take Cas away from him.

Dean wouldn't just sink – he'd drown. 

 


	16. Chapter 16

The next evening finds Dean and Cas in the outskirts of Denver, and though they could probably keep going and make it a little further, Cas talks Dean into stopping a little early for the night so they can relax. Dean finds that he doesn't care too much either way, so they agree to stop at whichever motel they stumbled upon first. They're somewhere near Barr Lake, so it comes as no surprise that the next motel they see is called The Barr.

Cas had originally suggested they stay at the restored cabins where they spent the night before, when they were on their way to California, but as much as Dean loved the place he kind of liked that Cas had warmed up to motel living. Plus, there was something exciting about staying someplace new, seeing new things and sleeping in strange beds. Old habits die hard, and that tumbleweed inside Dean still liked to roll onto new terrain. Cas wasn't disappointed, not even when they both realized that their competition to find the worst place had fizzled and died out. It was a hilarious idea, really, but Cas had done such an amazing job with the first pick that both of them had lost their desire to continue.

The Barr wasn't much different than The Deseret, a bit run down but freshened up with new paint, single-level rooms and plenty of vacancies. The building was completely white, with bright red doors and shaped like a 'U' around a big pool out back. It seemed decent enough, and they were both tired and ready to call it a night anyway. Cas insisted on paying for the room again, and Dean didn't complain or put up a fight. He's starting to rethink this whole 'kept man' gig because it's turning out to be a lot more fun than he thought.

They don't bring in all their stuff this time, since they'll be home by tomorrow and there's not much they need from the bags anyway. Cas brings in all the food, including the leftover pie and pastries that they didn't finish in the last motel. They each brought in a spare change of clothes and the toiletry bag, because Cas is kind of a freaking girl about his appearance and can't stand not showering or shaving. Dean thinks he looks pretty damn good with stubble, and even told him so, but Cas insists that kissing is a lot more fun when there's less stubble burn. Dean can't really argue with that.

They're settled in bed, undressed down to their boxers and under the soft white comforter, with Dean wrapped around Cas like a Christmas ribbon. Dean is exhausted, feeling like he could fall asleep at any moment, completely blissed out about getting to fall asleep next to Cas again, but Cas is staring up at the ceiling with wide, energized eyes. He's being kind of fidgety, too, which is unlike Cas' usual calm demeanor. He's not saying anything, probably because he knows how tired Dean is, but Dean hates it when Cas plays the martyr, so he asks, “What's on your mind?”

Cas turns and looks at Dean, kissing him on the forehead. He shrugs his shoulders, which turns out to be a weird thing to do when you're laying down cause it just looks awkward. “Can't sleep.”

“Yeah, I figured that,” Dean says, sitting up and yawning. “Everything okay?”

“Everything's fine, Dean,” Cas insists, running his fingers through Dean's hair. “Go to sleep.”

“I can't when you're thinking that loud. Just tell me,” Dean pushes, but after the words leave his mouth, he wonders if he should have just let the whole thing drop. He's curious now, but honestly, if Cas is laying here contemplating the pros and cons of breaking up with Dean when they get back to Lawrence, he doesn't want to hear it.

Dean has already been bogged down with the stress and depression of their road trip, but the trip was _his_ idea and involved _his_ brother and he has to deal with the consequences whether he likes it or not. Cas, on the other hand, doesn't. He could easily break things off with Dean to avoid having to deal with the aftermath, to avoid having to deal with someone else's family drama and all the baggage that accompanies it. Maybe that's what the great day yesterday was for. Maybe Cas was just trying to soften the blow, to weaken Dean's defenses before delivering the final punch. He couldn't blame Cas for that even if he wanted to, because Dean doesn't know how well he could deal with it if he were in his shoes. He'd probably find a way to slowly back out of it, too.

Dean clings to the soft white sheets with one hand, and clutches Cas with the other. He really, really doesn't want to hear what Cas is probably going to say.

Cas takes a deep breath, then rubs his eyes with his free hand. There's a moment where Cas looks like he's debating something, worry and fear crossing his features for a split second before vanishing, replaced with a mild smile. The hand in Dean's hair tightens, a firm grip that's actually kind of sexy, then smooths over the top of his hair until it's flat. “There's a pool out there, you know,” Cas finally says, and it's not at all what Dean was expecting.

Dean chuckles. “Yeah, but we didn't exactly bring swim trunks.”

A corner of Cas' lip lifts into a smirk. “We could go in our underwear. I doubt anyone's even out there.”

“In the mood for a midnight swim, are you?” Dean laughs, kissing Cas' shoulder. Cas' mild smile turns bright and genuine at the press of Dean's lips, just like it always does, and Dean wonders how playful little displays of affection like that could affect the both of them as much as it does.

“If you're up for it, yeah,” Cas confirms, messing up Dean's hair just so he can brush through it with his fingers and smooth it back down again. It feels so nice that Dean isn't sure if he wants to get up and disturb the moment.

But, Dean finds that he really likes it when Cas is happy, so he sits up and steals a quick kiss from Cas' surprised lips. “Then what are we waiting for?”

Cas' eyes brighten even more, a wide smile spreading across his face as he tackles Dean and pins him down on the bed, his legs on either side of Dean's hips. Cas takes Dean's hands in his own, then pushes them up over Dean's head and holds him down, lowering his lips until they're kissing deep and steady. And fuck, that's pretty much the hottest thing _ever_. Their dicks are pressed against each other, and Cas is slowly rolling his hips in a way that grinds them together so fucking perfectly that Dean could get off just like this. He moans into Cas' mouth, which makes Cas huff out a small laugh before stopping the kiss, planting several little pecks on Dean's face and sitting up.

“I think there's a hot tub, too,” Cas says, like they weren't just getting their sexy time on a few seconds prior. He rolls off of Dean and then off the bed, smoothing down his black and gray briefs. “I don't have boxers, but these will be fine, right?”

Dean has to breathe for a second, groaning at the sudden shift in the mood. “Sure,” he pants, coming back to his senses and sitting up. He looks down at his own underwear, which happens to be a pair of almost-white boxers. Ugh, of course the pair he's wearing is white, because everyone knows how well white clothing and water go together. Cas seems to be thinking the same thing, because he's practically staring at Dean's crotch. Dean rolls his eyes. Cas winks.

“It'll be okay,” Cas insists, grabbing a towel from the bathroom. “If anyone else comes out to swim, we can just get out and you can wrap this around yourself.” He tosses the towel to Dean with a way too eager grin on his face. Bastard.

“Fine, but if we're arrested for indecent exposure or some crap, just know that I have no problem throwing you under the bus,” Dean jokes.

“And I have no problem dragging you under the bus with me,” Cas retorts, slipping his shoes on without socks and pulling a t-shirt over his head.

“You know there's probably no one swimming because it's cold as a witches tit outside, right?”

“Like I said, there's a hot tub, and fewer people swimming means more fun for us,” Cas doesn't bother putting pants on, which seems awfully brave, but Dean gets distracted by how downright fine Cas looks standing there in just briefs and a t-shirt, his calves and ankles looking long and lean where they stick out of his loosely tied sneakers.

More fun. Yeah. Dean's totally down with that.

He follows suit, slipping on his jeans and shoes but not bothering with a shirt. He's got this annoying pet peeve issue with wet shirts clinging to his skin. Dean has never liked the way it felt, kind of like being shrink wrapped, and something about it always just made him feel trapped and uneasy. But, it's Denver in the middle of March, so it's barely more than twenty degrees outside and Dean knows he'll bemoan not bringing something to cover up. He grabs a second towel and hangs it over his shoulders.

Once they're outside, Dean immediately regrets agreeing to this stupid idea. It's freezing, and a light layer of steam is rising from the supposedly heated pool. Cas was right, there's a hot tub in the far corner, but most of the underwater lights are burnt out so it's kind of hard to tell exactly how big it is. Cas doesn't seem bothered by the cold or the darkness at all, he's setting their stuff down on one of the plastic pool-side seats and tables, but keeps his shoes on. He's right to do so, because if Dean had to guess, the ground is probably ice cold and unforgiving to human flesh.

“Have you ever played Eskimo?” Cas asks, taking Dean's towels and setting them on the second chair. Dean is shivering now, goosebumps budding across his arms and chest.

“Uh, no?”

Cas laughs, then explains, “it's not really a complicated game. It's basically jumping into cold pool water, not giving yourself time to adjust, then immediately getting into a hot tub. It shocks your system cold, then hot. Not super exciting, but could be fun.”

Dean looks at the stillness of the pool water, and wonders how cold a heated pool would actually be in contrast to the freezing Colorado air. And, wait, didn't the desk clerk say something about the pool heater being broken or something? Well, that can't be correct, otherwise the pool would be closed or have a layer of building ice across the top, right?

Dean's thoughts are interrupted when he's suddenly shoved forward toward the pool. He catches himself, his shoes helping to provide some traction on the ground like squeaky breaks, and dodges the next push by grabbing Cas' arms and pulling him close.

“Nuh uh, sneaky bastard. I go over, you go over,” Dean laughs, kicking off his shoes. Cas is laughing, still trying to get Dean to fall in but failing. He's laughing too much, and Dean has to shush him with his own lips to keep him from waking anyone else up.

Cas finally settles as he melts into the kiss, kicking his shoes off too, then laces their fingers together in a familiar, intimate way. Without saying anything else, Cas turns toward the water and leaps in, not letting go of Dean's hand, jerking him over the edge and side-first into the pool.

The water is surprisingly fucking cold.

It shocks Dean awake alright, because he wasn't expecting to feel colder in the water than he did in the frigid Denver air. The water swallows him whole, prickling against his already pebbled skin. Whatever semi-erection he had going on from Cas' stint in the motel room is completely gone now, dammit, because it feels like his dick has crawled back up inside his body like an anti-social hermit crab.

Seconds later, his head breaks the surface of the water. Cas is already making his way toward the hot tub, leaving Dean to fend for himself. The pool isn't any deeper than five feet, so he does what he can to walk across the bottom of the pool, using his arms to help propel him forward. He gets a wonderful eyeful of Cas, pulling his dripping wet body up over the tiled wall that separates the pool and the hot tub, the dark cotton of his briefs clinging tight to his skin. He takes a proud moment to think, _yeah, I fucked that_ , then laughs to himself as he catches up.

The hot tub is mercifully perfect, not too boiling hot or over-chlorinated. It's just a small round space with jets and bench seating like any other hot tub, but there's only one working underwater light, so it's abnormally dark. It makes Dean feel uneasy for a moment, because he's seen too many scary movies and detective shows to know that there could legitimately be something terrifying or disgusting beneath the surface that he just can't see. Cas is already sitting with his back to one of the jets, his arms up and spread across the tile wall, completely relaxed. Dean pushes out any Forensic Files thoughts he was having and floats over to Cas, sitting beside him.

The jet bubbles feel orgasmic against his back, and Dean is pretty sure that this midnight swim is one of greatest ideas Cas has ever had. Next to the surprise hockey game, of course, because that was pretty fucking awesome too if he says so himself. There's still that persistent fear that Cas might be buttering him up just so he can give him the bad news, that the trip was too much or that he wants to slow things down or cut them off completely. Dean has no idea what he would say in reply to all of that, and as much as the cricket wants him to internally rehearse all the possible things he could say, Dean chooses not to. He doesn't want to live that way anymore.

Besides, Cas would probably wait until they got back to break that kind of news to Dean, not right before they have to share a bed together in the middle of Colorado.

“Come closer,” Cas says, tugging on Dean's arm. Dean is already pretty close, they're sitting shoulder to shoulder with both of their backs against a jet, so Dean decides he's going to be funny and sit right on Cas' lap. He lifts his leg and straddles Cas, each knee on either side of him on the bench. He braces himself by gripping the wet tile wall.

“Close enough?”

“Perfect,” Cas laughs, lowering his arms from the tile and putting his hands on Dean's hips. “You're perfect.”

Cas' tone deepened and softened into something more serious and reverent, and the mood between them instantly changes. It turned from playful to something more intimate, more personal, and as Cas' hands leave dripping trails of water where they glide up and down his sides, Dean wonders just how brave and kinky Castiel Novak can be.

“Did you lure me out here just so you could have your way with me?” Dean jokes, trying to soften the edges of the suddenly intense atmosphere.

Cas' face reverts back to what Dean saw in the motel room, the look torn between worry and fear and something else he doesn't completely recognize. It's a little scary if Dean's being perfectly honest, and strikes a tender nerve in his chest that his fears might actually be coming true right this second.

“I'm not going to leave you, Dean,” Cas vows, keeping his hands firmly in place where they rest on Dean's thighs. “I can see it every time you look at me. It's like you're afraid I'm going to vanish or something, so I just want you to know that's not the case. I have no intentions of ending our relationship, or disappearing for that matter.”

“Oh.”

Dean is a bit dumbfounded, because logically he knows that mind reading is impossible, but Cas can see through him so clearly that it's almost unsettling. Were his fears really that obvious? Was he really looking at Cas that way? He must have been, otherwise Cas wouldn't be so worried, sitting here with that incredibly sincere look on his face like he has to plead with Dean to believe everything he's saying.

“I mean it,” Cas promises, not breaking his strong, blue, unblinking gaze into Dean's eyes. “I'm not leaving.”

“I believe you,” Dean utters, and to his absolute amazement, he really does believe it. He knows he can trust Cas to tell him the truth, that he can trust Cas not to lead him in one direction when he plans to go another. And really, Cas hasn't done anything to deserve the suspicion that Dean has been internally accusing him of.

And then it strikes him like a bolt of lightening, that there might not be a more perfect moment than this one for Dean to tell Cas what needs to be said, what he's been waiting to hear.

“I love you,” Dean whispers, and it was so quiet that it was barely louder than the bubbles rising and breaking against the cold March air. He's not even sure if Cas heard him until Cas smiles, bright white teeth contrasting those flawless flesh-pink lips of his.

“I love you too,” Cas assures, and then they're kissing.

It started slow, like a physical reassurance that yes, they do in fact love each other, but as the seconds turned into minutes, the kiss sped up and dissolved into something more desperate and passionate. Their tongues tangled and explored the cave of each other's mouth, their lips crushed together and teeth occasionally clacking when they got too excited. Dean lowered his hands from the tile and onto Cas' shoulders, keeping himself braced upright in Cas' lap.

Cas' hips bucked up and pushed their groins together in a way that definitely felt good, then

trailed his hands over Dean's thighs until they were at the soft skin just below his hips. His thumbs and fingers gripped and massaged Dean's sensitive flesh until he was fully awakened and hard beneath his boxers. Dean moaned into the kiss like a plea, grinding down into Cas for some friction, and Cas chuckled like he thought it was cute.

Cas breaks the kiss and tilts his head back, looking at Dean and taking another deep breath. Dean doesn't like the sudden pause but he accepts it, letting Cas look at him and take all of him in. After a moment, Dean realizes that Cas is trying to calm himself down, but Dean isn't having any of that. He rolls his hips in a little circle, pressing himself down and over Cas' still-hard dick. Cas hisses and closes his eyes, tightening his grip on Dean's hips to something almost bruising.

“If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were trying to get me into trouble,” Cas says, resting his head on the tile.

“In trouble?” Dean smirks, rolling his hips again, “who, me?”

“Yes, you,” Cas says, then leans forward to lick away a stray droplet of water from Dean's chest, “I'm fairly certain it's illegal to have sex in public.”

“That's what makes it so fun,” Dean insists.

“And you're sure you're up for that kind of fun, Dean? What if someone comes out and sees us?” The words are teasing and playful, light against the cold and dark background that envelopes them.

Dean isn't exactly a stranger to public sex, especially not in recent years when having sex in alleyways outside of bars became a habit, but he's never done it in a pool before and something about that idea really excites him. Especially with Cas, because he's usually so formal and uptight about things, and seeing Cas let loose that far in public, in a hot tub full of _germs_ no less, is something Dean really, really wants to see.

“Then I guess they'll get a free show, won't they?” Dean counters, feeling far more brave than usual. “But I can't guarantee I won't kill them afterward. No one gets an eyeful of my man naked and wet without paying the price.”

“Your man, huh?” Cas says, bucking his hips again I excitement. “I do like the sound of that.”

The conversation devolves into more kissing, but this time with more groping and touching until they're both on edge and nearly out of breath. Dean's hands slowly traveled from the broadness of Cas' shoulders to the tender sides of his neck. His fingertips play along the strong line of Cas' jaw, and gently over the quickened heartbeat pulsing beneath his skin. Dean feels like he could come right now, wrapped in the steam from the hot tub and the scent of chlorine and the taste of Cas' warm, supple tongue.

Then Cas pushes Dean off his lap, and he goes floating backward with a confused, rejected look on his face. But Cas doesn't make Dean think he's been rejected for long, tugging on his arm and pushing him slightly to the side, facing the tile.

“Put your knees on the bench,” Cas instructs, guiding Dean with his firm grip. Dean does as he's told, liking the direction this is taking. Keeping himself balanced is a slight challenge, but he lifts his knees up onto the bench and spreads his legs, holding onto the cold tile that lines the hot tub, his long fingers reaching the colder cement. His upper body is almost completely out of the water now, with everything below his navel completely submerged.

Cas rises to his feet and stands behind Dean, their waists level, and presses his erection into the line of Dean's ass. Dean moans, and it makes Cas chuckle. “You have to be quiet, Dean,” Cas reminds, then reaches one hand around until he's cupping Dean's throbbing dick, lightly stroking it through the boxers.

Dean nods, “Yeah, quiet, got it.”

“Move a little to the right,” Cas demands, using his free hand to push on Dean's side until he complies, inching to the right on his knees. It suddenly becomes clear what Cas was going for, because now there's a steady jet stream of jacuzzi bubbles blowing right onto Dean's groin. Normally, any regular working hot tub would have a stream too strong and powerful to stand, especially this close and personal to his junk, but now he can add this to list of benefits of staying in shitty motels. The hot tub isn't quite working at full capacity, so the jets aren't as hard and fast as they should be. It's fucking perfect and if they don't get the show on the road, Dean may just come from this alone.

“There we go,” Cas says, approving of Dean's new position, “that feel good?”

“Oh yeah,” Dean answers, and he barely recognizes his own voice. It's all high and needy and desperate sounding and he can't remember the last time he wanted to be fucked this badly. He pushes his ass back into Cas, practically begging him to get a move on.

Cas pushes back, surprisingly rough and commanding, then hooks a finger around the hem of Dean's boxers. He tugs it down until his boxers are snug around his spread thighs, then rubs a finger over his needy hole. Cas pushes the first finger inside him, followed quickly by a second, and it feels so good that Dean can't help but let out a pleasured sigh.

“Do you need help staying quiet, Dean?” Cas asks, pressing his chest against Dean's back and whispering it into his ear. He doesn't wait for Dean to reply, covering Dean's mouth with his hand. It's not a light or gentle touch, it's firm and insistent and just one of the many things he loves about sex with guys. They can be rough and authoritative without breaking each other, and fuck it's sexy. Cas is totally playing the dominant card and Dean can't get enough of it.

The fingers inside him are relentless, stretching him open and making him _feel_ it, then a third finger joins the first two and Dean moans into the barrier of Cas' hand. “You ready?” Cas asks, and Dean nods as quickly and frantically as he can. Hell yes he's ready, this is the hottest thing he's ever experienced and he's definitely ready for more.

Cas' fingers slip out, replaced by the blunt head of Cas' cock, catching on Dean's rim before pushing forward and slowly sinking in. The fullness is so fucking amazing that Dean is grateful for Cas' hand keeping him quiet, because otherwise he'd be cussing and begging loudly for more.

Then Cas starts to move, initially with little thrusts punctuated by his own heavy breathing, then faster until he's got a steady pace going. Dean's fingers slip on the tile, struggling for purchase as he's rocking forward and back, his movements limited by Cas' iron clamp over his mouth. Dean compensates by spreading his legs impossibly wider, the hem of his boxers ripping slightly under the pressure.

Water is splashing violently around him, over his hips and arms and up his back as Cas thrusts in and out of him, not slowed or challenged by the resistance of the water at all. God bless all those years of ninja lessons because he's got to have the ab muscles of Hercules to fuck Dean so quickly and efficiently underwater. The spray of hot tub water heats his cooling flesh, taming the pebbling of his skin against the ice-cold air.

Dean tries his hardest not to be loud, but even with Cas' hand to help, he's making far too much noise for their muted surroundings. Cas is fucking him mercilessly, his other hand tight on Dean's hip, fingers digging into the soft skin there. The drag of Cas' cock pumping in and out of him, the band of his briefs slapping against Dean's skin and the steady jet blowing right onto Dean's leaking erection is so good that it's almost too much. He's moaning and whimpering against Cas' hand, half tempted to lick his palm and suck one his fingers into his mouth, but he can't concentrate on anything except the orgasm building in his gut and the thrill that someone might be watching them through their motel window.

Cas leans forward and drapes himself over Dean's back, blanketing him from the cold and changing the angle of his thrusts just slightly, and then he's hitting Dean's prostate and sending blinding white pulses of pleasure buzzing through his body. Dean is really moaning now, his noisy whimpers barely muffled by Cas' vice-like grip over his mouth. His back arches as he pushes back into Cas, meeting him thrust for thrust, and then he's coming in his boxers. The jet stream makes the orgasm last forever, he's breathless by the time he's finally done, and he's certain it was the longest orgasm he's ever had in his life.

But Cas isn't done yet, he's still fucking into Dean in search of his own release, pounding at his prostate until Dean thinks he might actually pass out from all the overwhelming sensations. Then Cas leans forward, gently biting on Dean's ear, then says, “If I move my hand, will you promise to keep quiet?”

Dean can't promise that, because he just tried his hardest not to be loud and that failed miserably even with Cas' help, but Cas moves his hand away anyway and puts it on the back of Dean's neck. He pushes Dean's head down until it's resting on the wet tile, holding him in place, and starts fucking him again.

Dean catches his breath, and lets himself be completely used and manhandled by Cas and his relentless thrusting. The tile is warm from all the hot tub water, so he relaxes and relishes the feel of Cas' hand on his neck and the perfect way Cas fills him. He lowers a hand to block his softening dick from the jet, because it was starting to border on painful and he wants Cas to enjoy himself for as long as he can without any complaints from Dean. He's still moaning, but now it's more of a breathy panting than anything else, too tired to form a more manly or robust noise.

The grip on Dean's neck tightens until it's almost unpleasant, and then Cas is coming, his hips slowing and stuttering as he tries to quiet his own moans. He pulls out of Dean slowly, hissing faintly as the sensitive flesh hits the hot water again.

Cas tucks himself back into his briefs, then sits on the bench and pulls Dean back onto his lap. Dean is exhausted, his limbs and body limp and compliant to whatever Cas wants. They rest their heads on each other's shoulders, not bothering to look around for anyone that might be watching them.

“You're perfect,” Cas repeats, his hands tracing along Dean's spine, “perfect for me.”

Dean was tired before they ever got into the pool, and now that he's completely and totally spent, he's struggling just to keep his eyes open. He wants to fall asleep right there in the hot tub, surrounded by the blue and green tiles and rising steam from the water's surface, but he knows it's not a good idea. He can't form a coherent response, and his lips still tingle from the pressure Cas' hand had over them. Dean finally responds in the form of a few weak, lazy kisses over Cas' collar bone. Cas just laughs, holding him a little closer.

“We should get back inside. You were definitely too loud,” Cas murmurs.

“Not my fault you're that good,” Dean retorts, surprised at his ability to even speak. His whole body is still humming from the pleasure, like the blanketing, numbing sensation of too much night-time cough syrup. He feels weighted down, and the thought of having to get up out of the water and into the cold air is pretty much the last thing he wants to do. And, of course, he didn't bring a shirt or jacket, just an extra flimsy towel to drape over his shoulders. Dammit.

“You can have my shirt,” Cas offers, noticing Dean's reluctance to leave the pool. Dean nods, too tired and too much of a wimp to refuse the gesture. Cas guides him back to the bench, then pulls himself out of the hot tub and goes to their things. His dark briefs are lightened by all the chlorine, sopping wet and sticking to his ass. Water is running down his legs in errant little streams, and praise whatever God is responsible for Cas' existence because it is one glorious sight.

Cas gets his shoes on and quickly dries himself off with a towel, shivering against the freezing air. He returns to the hot tub and helps Dean out of it, and shit on a cracker it is much colder than he remembers it being when they first got here. Cas snickers at Dean's now see-through boxers, but Dean is far too cold to think about anything but the promise of a dry towel and t-shirt. Cas dries him off, helps him pull the shirt on over his damp hair and skin, then guides him inside with an arm draped over his shoulder.

Yeah, it's been a long time since anyone took care of Dean like this. Even the simplest gestures seem like grand ones, and Dean feels like he's won the power ball lottery.

Once they're back in the room, they kick off their shoes and strip out of their wet underwear. Fortunately, they had bright idea to bring in an extra pair of clothes, so they each have a dry pair to change into. Cas starts to pull his shirt off of Dean's body, probably because it's wet in spots, but Dean groans and refuses. He wants to keep the shirt on, even if it's a little wet and snug. Cas doesn't push the issue, just smiles as they crawl under the fluffy white covers.

“It's cold in here,” Dean complains, pulling the blanket tight over his shoulders. Cas gets out of bed and goes over to the heater, turning up the temperature, then returns and pulls the blankets tight over himself as well. Dean scoots closer until they're pressed up against each other, breathing each other's air and tangling their feet together.

“Better?” Cas asks, and Dean thinks that there's a million things that question could apply to. Everything seems better when Cas is around – Dean eats better, sleeps better, he even _thinks_ better just because Cas has wormed his way into Dean's life.

“Yeah,” Dean answers, and it's true for everything.

“Can I ask you something?” Cas asks, and the hushed way he said it makes it seem like he's afraid to ask it. Dean is so close to falling asleep, curled up with heavy lids, unsure he can even stay awake long enough to answer the questions.

“Sure,” Dean says, and it's slightly garbled from his tired, lazy lips.

“Why did you take that book from Sam's room?”

Dean wants to say _what book_ , because he's so exhausted that he can barely remember anything outside of their comfy little bed nest, but then his thoughts drift lazily to the weird book he shoved into his jacked pocket after seeing what was on the bent up, dog-eared page.

He doesn't actually know why he took the book, he just did. He saw it, read what was highlighted and underlined like it was holy motherfucking scripture, and decided on a whim that Sam shouldn't have it anymore. It's not like Dean took something that couldn't be replaced, and it's not like he really intended to read the whole book himself. He tries to come up with a response for Cas that doesn't sound petty or lame, but it's probably so difficult because taking the book really was that petty and that lame.

Dean finally settles on the truth, too lazy to come up with anything else at this point. “He highlighted a paragraph that kind of pissed me off, so I took it.”

“Hmm,” Cas hums, mulling that statement over in his mind. At least he doesn't have his judgmental face on, because that is not the last thing Dean wants to see before he falls asleep. “What was the passage he highlighted?”

“Something about doing what it takes to survive, including taking food from his dad. Something about being better off without family.”

Cas doesn't say anything else, he just threads his fingers through Dean's hair and uses his nails to lightly scratch at his scalp. It feels so good that Dean might actually drool over it, and he's definitely too close to the edge of sleep to continue their conversation.

“It makes more sense by the end,” Cas explains, his own speech getting slower and thicker with the weight if impending sleep. “I think you'll appreciate the last few lines.”

 _Maybe_ , Dean thinks, or maybe he says it out loud. He's not entirely sure anymore, because he can feel himself drifting off into slumber.

“Love you,” Cas yawned, closing his eyes and settling more comfortably in the bed.

“Love you too,” Dean manages to mumble.

The last thought he has before falling asleep is how on Earth he's going to sleep alone again once they get back to Lawrence.

 


	17. Chapter 17

Rolling back into Kansas feels a lot like that first bite of a freshly baked, hot apple pie. It's a warm, sweet sensation that he only gets on rare occasions, and it always makes him feel like maybe the world isn't such a bad place. Sure, he's got that tumbleweed soul that itches to trundle around every once in a while, but Kansas is the only true home that Dean's ever had. Ever since they grew roots in Lawrence so Sammy could go to high school, Dean didn't have much of an opportunity to leave just so he could come back, just so he could get a taste of homesickness and cure it with the vast fields of wheat and sunflowers.

Damn, it feels good to be home.

Cas must be feeling that same sense of relief too, to finally be home after a long and frustrating road trip, because he seems lighter and happier than he has since the whole trip started. He was even whistling in the shower this morning, which Dean is pretty sure he's never heard before, and he smiled through breakfast and bad songs on the radio and lunch. Cas was back to his old, chipper self, and while normally that might have made Dean worry about _why_ Cas was so happy to be back home, Dean doesn't let himself think any negative thoughts.

After all, the world is too perfectly round for any of Dean's jagged, disjointed thoughts. He knows that now.

They debate on whether or not to stop at the garage to see everyone first, or going straight home to unpack and shower. It wasn't much of a debate, since they were both tired and sore from sitting in a car for so long, they just wanted to relax for a bit and not be bombarded with company and questions.

The downside of returning home wasn't exactly something Dean wanted to think about, but as they got closer and closer to Lawrence, he had to prepare himself for returning to his own bedroom and sleeping alone again. It definitely wasn't a consequence that Dean had considered before the trip, because he wasn't even sure if they'd be sharing a room or even a bed, but now that he's used to falling asleep with Cas by his side he'll have to readjust to the quiet and loneliness.

Because, really, there's no other alternative to the situation. He loves Cas, and doesn't even want to think about a future that doesn't involve him, but Dean isn't ready to move in with him yet or anything. Their relationship has already moved so quickly in such a short amount of time, and two dudes moving in together is pretty much the same as getting married. That's a bit too heavy for them right now, and Dean actually owns the house he's living in and he doesn't want to sell it or rent it out. Of course, Cas could always move into his place, but that seems wrong considering the place hasn't even had a chance to air out from the stench of whiskey and dusty cardboard.

Lucky for them, they live super close to each other and he's sure they can work something out. Not moving in with each other, but maybe a few nights a week they can crash at each other's place after a date or something. That would at least guarantee Dean a few nights a week of real sleep, which is more than he used to get in the pre-Cas era of his life.

He's probably thinking about the issue too hard and too much, which makes him feel stupid about it now so he just pushes it out of his mind. Dean kind of wishes he had the balls to talk to Cas about it, but Cas is always so logical and straightforward and probably hasn't thought about them moving in together at all. Cas is just too _cool_ to be worrying about that kind of stuff, so Dean should follow suit and get his shit together before it finds a way to blow up in his face.

When they're finally back on to their home street, Dean doesn't bother calling or texting anyone to let them know they've arrived. He figures the presence of his sweet Baby and the rumbling of her engine is enough of an announcement on its own, and he's not really in the mood to be questioned or get into long conversations about Sam and addiction and California. Bobby has enough self awareness that he wouldn't be annoying or overstay his welcome, but Jo and Charlie and Ellen are like a group of clucking hens running around and shaking their feathers all over the place. They'll just scratch and peck at Dean until he's bleeding his emotions all over the place, which is literally the last thing on Earth he wants to deal with right now.

Even though Dean has mostly made peace with the fact that his little brother might be beyond saving, it doesn't mean he's ready to get into the details or have to look at everyone's pitying faces. Cas seemed to get the picture immediately, because he barely mentioned Sam or Stanford at all after they left. He kept things light and fun and distracted Dean with his awesomeness. His surrogate family won't be as gentle or understanding, so he's going to take the night to gather his thoughts and collect himself before opening up those particular flood gates.

Dean pulls up in front of Cas' house and puts his Baby in park. Cas opens the door and gets out, walking toward the trunk to get his bags. Dean decides on a whim to be a little cheesy and gets out too, grabbing Cas' bags for him and walking him to the door. Cas seems rather pleased by that, and gives him a long, slow goodbye kiss that Dean is reluctant to have end. They make tentative plans to meet up later, either for drinks at the Roadhouse or a late-night movie at one of their places, then say their goodbyes. It feels really weird to be Cas-less for the first time what feels like forever, despite having only been on the trip for about a week.

And, for just a split second, Dean actually considers begging Cas to move in with him, to never leave and to adopt a dog with him or a bunch of cats or babies, whatever he wants. He wants to cling to Cas' leg like an ankle weight and build a permanent nest in his shoe. Thank God for a working internal filter, though, because he doesn't say anything and manages to maintain his composure as he walks back toward his Impala. It's pretty unsettling how attached Dean is to his starry-eyed man, and it definitely wouldn't be a good idea to scare him away with all that needy desperation. Plus, he _just_ had this conversation with himself. He's not ready for that and he's sure Cas isn't either.

Come on, Dean. Get a fucking grip.

Another couple minutes, and then Dean is home. He parks in his driveway and checks the mail, unsurprised that his mailbox is empty minus a few junk letters and advertisements. He can't remember the last time he actually got a real letter from someone, probably because he never has. The closest thing he's ever had to that are the little love notes he and Cas exchange. He'd way rather have little love notes than letters any day, so it's not a big deal.

Dean hauls his duffel bag inside and drops it in the laundry room, since it's ninety percent clothes anyway and he doesn't feel like unpacking it all at the moment. He takes a moment to wander around his cold, empty home, taking his familiar surroundings in. The home has a very sad feel to it, especially now that it's just him to occupy the space, but it's not exactly a new concept. The home was always a little sad, the underlying reasons were just ever-changing. First it was Sam and John and their relentless fighting, then it was the suffocating weight of Sam's absence, and finally the death of his father. All that sadness has made a home in the walls of this house, so much that it may as well be part of its structural integrity, but now that it's just Dean, he thinks he can do something to fix that.

He looks at his home with a new perspective, the hard-fought one that took facing his deepest fears to realize, and he thinks with a little hard work he can turn this empty house into a real home. Dean doesn't have to be sad if he doesn't want to, he doesn't have to live with all of his brother's things or the stuff his dad left behind. There's no point in living with those ghosts anymore. The house is in Dean's name, always has been, and now he can finally do what he wants with it and start building a life for himself.

The concept is foreign and does take some getting used to, but he knows it will be worth it. Dean had visions for this house when he first picked it out. He wanted to start renovating it when he finished paying Bobby back for helping with the down payment, but even after he finished with that debt, one thing happened after another and money was always too tight. Sam needed school supplies, new clothes, money to hang out with his friends or to take a girl on a date. John had medical bills that needed to be paid off, his Baby needed repairs, and taking Lisa out for romantic dinners all the time wasn't exactly cheap. He's lucky he managed to save any money at all, but now a chunk of his savings is gone from having to spend it on the road trip.

Hell, if Cas hadn't of pitched in on the expenses, at least half of Dean's savings would be gone by now.

Dean knows that renovations can take a long time and a lot of money, but the least he can do to get things started is clear out the two bedrooms of all the junk that fills them. One room is full of his late father's stuff and furniture, the other has two twin beds and is half-filled with Sam's packed boxes. It's just him living here now, in _his_ home, so he can finally take over the master bedroom and turn it into the room he's always wanted. He's not one of those fancy gay guys with an eye for interior decorating, he's just a simple guy with simple tastes, but that hasn't stopped him from daydreaming his whole life about what he would do with a bedroom if he ever had one all to himself.

Well, looks like that day has finally come. It's actually kind of exciting, and Dean has to force himself to calm down about it. It still feels a bit wrong to be so happy about getting rid of his only family's cluttering junk. But he doesn't dwell on that thought for too long, because the idea of actually having a real bedroom where Cas can sleep when he comes over pretty much outweighs everything else.

It's not too late in the evening, they left their motel around ten in the morning after sleeping in too long but the drive was barely more than eight hours. He should probably shower and get his clothes in the washer, maybe cook himself a real meal after eating fast food and delivery for the last week, but he doesn't feel like being a responsible adult at the moment. Dean gets the wood-burning stove going and stokes it a bit until there's a steady heat flowing into the living room. He kicks off his shoes, hangs up his jacket where there are now two empty hooks instead of just the one, and turns on the television.

Oh man, does it feel weird sitting in John's old recliner. Comfortable, but weird.

Dean watches whatever show happens to be on, some kind of family sitcom that's a little too campy for his tastes, but he barely lasts an hour before he feels like he has to move. Sitting in his dad's spot sends strange vibes all over his body that could best be described as the heebie-jeebies. He moves to the couch, but out of habit he keeps looking toward the recliner, expecting to see his dad laying there with a bottle of Wild Turkey in his hand. His entire living room is just making him feel so creeped out that he turns off the television and decides to do something about it.

He starts in the bedroom he shared with Sam. Pretty much everything has got to go.

One by one, Dean starts hauling the already packed boxes down into the entry way. He packed these boxes himself ages ago, after Sam first left, so he knows that all they contain are Sam's clothes and some of his books. He has no need for any of it, so he's just going to send it all to Goodwill.

Once all the boxes are out of the bedroom, Dean can actually see Sammy's side of the room. He can see the stupid posters and the book shelf, and the little night stand that Dean found for him at a garage sale. Sam really wanted one for some lame reason ( _but Dean, I can put a lamp on it and my books and stuff!_ ) so when he stumbled across it, he gave in and purchased it for twenty bucks. He sanded it, stained it, and even put on a new knob. Sam was such a spoiled kid, and neither of them seemed to notice. Sam always wanted more, nothing was ever enough, and Dean couldn't see past the guilt to recognize that Sam had more than anyone else in their family.

Oh well. Too late now. The nightstand is pretty nice, though, so Dean will probably keep it for himself.

Thinking about the nightstand makes Dean realize that he could make a small profit if he had a garage sale of his own instead of giving everything away. Unfortunately, it's still March, and though most of the snow is gone and it's starting to warm up, it's still pretty damn cold and not many people want to hang around outside to buy used crap. He'll have to ask Charlie how to sell all this stuff online so he can use the money to get some new furniture.

Some of this stuff he won't be able to sell, though, like that God-forsaken recliner and most of the junk in his dad's room. Sam's books are still in good enough condition that they can be sold, same with his clothes and his twin bed, but John's stuff is probably far too gross and old to make a profit. It might not even be good enough to donate. After all, people don't shop at Goodwill so they can look homeless and smell like vomit, and he's certain that not even their industrial strength washing machines could eradicate John's lingering odor.

Dean makes his way into John's room, which is just as small as he remembers it being. There isn't much, but it's enough to hit Dean square in the chest that he'll never see his dad again. He'll never hear his voice, never carry him back to bed or check his pulse. Sure, he doesn't have to worry anymore or bear that burden, but it still hurts. He loved his dad as much as he loves Sammy, and acknowledging that his life doesn't have to be pointless without them doesn't make this any easier. He's got to clear out this room if he ever wants to have a normal life.

He sits on the bed, running his hands over the stained top sheet. Dean has so many regrets, so many things that he wishes he could have done differently. His new perspective on life has helped him not to dwell on those regrets, but they still live surrendered in his heart like subdued enemies, pacing the line until they receive orders to attack. Dean would give almost anything to have his dad back, his _real_ dad, not the drunk asshole that sucked out his lifeblood and stole his flesh.

It comes down to everything being Dean's fault. If he hadn't of killed his mother, his father would have never drank. If John never drank, Sammy would never had grown to hate their family so much. If Sam didn't hate their family, he wouldn't have left and started using drugs. Dean doesn't want to admit it, but the truth is that if Sam dies from a drug overdose, then his death is Dean's fault, too.

God, he doesn't want that to happen. Not only would Sam's death be unbearable, but being responsible for the death of everyone in his family isn't something Dean could handle. He'd probably end up killing himself.

Ha. Then Dean really _would_ be responsible for the death of all the Winchesters, himself included.

No, Dean has to stop letting himself think these things. What happened to his resolve, to his new perspective? Something about this house, with its sad walls and sad carpet and sad furniture, has dragged Dean back into that selfish pity party. Sam made the choice to leave and do drugs. John made the choice to drink and raise his kids on the road. Mom...well, mom didn't choose anything that lead to her fate. She's the most innocent of them all, a pure and unfiltered light shining down on what's left of the pitiful Winchester clan.

Dean flops back on the bed, his head landing on the pillow. Something beneath him makes a strange crinkly sound, like the crunching of paper. He reaches a hand under the pillow, feeling around until the tip of his finger brushes against the corner of something thin and a little flimsy. He pulls it out and is surprised to see an old, weathered picture. It's their family, one taken after Sam was born, but different than the picture he carries around in his wallet. He's never seen this picture before, so it's probably the only copy.

John and Mary are standing side by side, with Sam cradled in John's arms and Dean up on Mary's shoulders. It looks like a candid shot, because they're not posing or facing the camera. His parents are looking at each other and smiling, while Dean looks down at his chubby baby brother. Mary looks so beautiful, so happy, and it's comforting to see how well his profile matches his mom's. She's wearing a long white skirt and a yellow tank top, and little Dean is sporting an awesome Batman shirt.

 _'Sup, little Dean?_ he thinks, looking at how happy their family had been, how happy they could still be if not for his selfish stupidity. He looks at his mother's smiling profile, and says, “Sorry, mom. I really fucked up, didn't I?”

He wonders what she was thinking about when this picture was taken. She probably imagined a full life for herself, imagined what her grown boys would be like, who they would fall in love with, what careers they would choose. She must have pictured herself growing old beside her high school sweetheart, playing with her grand-babies, then retiring on a farm someplace where she could watch the rise and fall of the sun from a porch swing.

What would she think of Dean if she could see him now? Would she be proud, disappointed, dismayed?

 _She would say it's not your fault_ , he thinks. _You were just a little kid. You didn't know any better_.

Yeah, maybe.

Dean got lost in his musings, wondering how many times his father must have fallen asleep with this picture in mind, or even in hand. He falls asleep, slowly, lulled by images of his mother glowing in sunlight, smiling, unaware that her time was rapidly coming to an end.

When he wakes, it was from a dreamless sleep.

It's morning, and if the clock isn't lying to him, it's nearly ten. That means he slept for an incredible fourteen hours. Damn.

He checks his phone, frustrated, because he was supposed to meet up with Cas last night and he doesn't want him thinking that Dean just bailed on him. Sure enough, he's got several missed calls and text messages from Cas, and from everyone else in Lawrence, it seems. Apparently Cas assumed Dean had fallen asleep, which was true, and then went to the Roadhouse anyway to hang out and get his truck from the parking lot. Of course, that means everyone found out they were back and decided to rain down text messages on him like a fucking monsoon.

And, according to Charlie, there is a Cas-related surprise waiting for him at the garage. Oh, God. Dean doesn't even want to know what kind of Cas-themed present Charlie and Bobby could have come up with. Please, please just don't let it be anything sexual in nature. Charlie has a dirtier mind than any of them and he's learned not to underestimate her abilities.

The first thing he does is take a shower, because he's pretty sure John's sheets haven't been washed in some time and he feels dirtier for having slept in his bed despite still having clothes on. He shaves and even styles his hair a little with gel, then puts on a pair of clean jeans and his only Creedence Clearwater Revival t-shirt. He's feeling pretty good, all things considered.

He decides to stop by Cas' place first, to see if he's home and if he wants to join Dean to find out what the weird surprise is at the garage. Before he leaves, he scribbles a quick thank you note to stick in Cas' mailbox for him to find later. It's a little strange how quickly he got used to writing these love notes, but it's alright. He's never done anything like this before with anyone else and he likes that he has that unique extra something with Cas.

Dean slips the little piece of paper in Cas' mailbox, then jogs up to the front door and knocks. Cas answers after a couple of minutes with a groggy “Hello, Dean,” before inviting him inside. Cas is wrapped in a blanket, wearing nothing but boxers and socks, and the poor guy looks like he's fighting a hangover.

“Drink a lot last night, did you?” Dean asks, pulling Cas in for a hug.

“They wouldn't let me leave until I was completely inebriated, and since I couldn't drive and no one could get in touch with you, Jo drove me home and crashed here,” Cas explains, his voice tired and thick with sleep. He's brewing a pot of coffee and trying to tame his wild bed-head hair. Dean likes this look on Cas, a sexy kind of dishevelment with flushed cheeks and mussed locks, and if Jo weren't here he'd probably take Cas right here on the kitchen floor.

“Where's Jo at?”

“I think she's still asleep on the couch,” Cas answers, waving his arm in her general direction. Aw, he's so cute when he's grumpy.

He finds Jo on the couch as expected, but Dean wasn't prepared to see her practically naked or sprawled out, barely covered by the fleece blanket she must have kicked off herself during the night. She's only got a tank top and panties on, and his gut reaction is to close his eyes immediately and resist the urge to vomit. It's not that Jo's unattractive or anything, quite the opposite, it's just that it feels like the equivalent of getting an eyeful of naked sister and that is so not okay with Dean.

He decides the best way to get revenge on Jo for making him see her in her damn underpants is to wake her up using the vocal gift God gave him. Dean gets up real close, lowers his lips to her ear, and yells.

“GOOD MORNING, SUNSHINE! THE EARTH SAYS HELLO!”

Jo bolts upright in an instant, clutching at the blanket and gasping like she's expecting to be surrounded by warfare. Cas gives him a murderous look that Dean barely catches from the corner of his eye, which only makes him laugh. It was worth it.

“What the fuck, Dean?” Jo whines, looking around the living room through tired, light-sensitive eyes. She's squinting and scowling, running her fingers through her hair like an emergency hairbrush.

“Right back at you, darlin'. Now get some pants on,” Dean insists, grabbing her jeans from off the floor and tossing them at her. She's still waking up, so she doesn't have her usual honed reflexes and they hit her in the face. Whoops.

“Asshole,” Jo mutters, shoving the jeans away from her. “It's too hot in here for pants. Cas apparently likes to feel like he's living in Satan's bowels.”

It's true, Cas did prefer the heat and kept his home warmer than most people, but it's not _that_ bad and it's still no excuse for Jo to be parading around in her panties. He knows better than to be jealous, but there's still that tiny little seed of doubt that thinks it's possible Cas could suddenly decide he's straight, overwhelmed by Jo's pert little ass, and run away with her into the night leaving Dean behind to pick up their jeans off the floor.

Unlikely, yeah, but Dean never said he wasn't a petty, jealous jerk.

Jo must see exactly what's going on in Dean's head, because she rolls her eyes and covers herself with the blanket. “Gimme a break, Winchester. It's not like it matters. You guys are gay, and in case you didn't know this yet, I don't have a dick.”

“But you do have jeans,” Dean counters, pointing at them where they lay on the floor, “so put them on. Don't need your mom showing up and accusing us of anything unsavory.”

Jo grunts and flips Dean her middle finger, then tugs the jeans on over her legs but leaves them unbuttoned. “So good to have you back,” she mumbles sarcastically, getting up from the couch and heading toward the bathroom.

Cas comes in with the blanket still wrapped around him and a fresh cup of coffee in hand. His eyes are brighter and he's looking more awake now, and less like the alcohol had its way with him. “Don't be so hard on her,” Cas said, sipping on his hot coffee, “she came here to take care of me when she could have gone home with her boyfriend. It was nice of her.”

Dean knows that it was probably less about altruism than it was knowing what Dean would do to all of them if they let Cas get hurt, but he doesn't say so out loud. “She's got a boyfriend?”

Cas nods. “I met him last night. Adam, I believe. Nice fellow.”

If Dean's not mistaken, he's pretty sure Adam is that homophobic douche who called him a faggot, and he's surprised that Jo actually took him back after that. Well, maybe he's not that surprised, because Dean knows he doesn't pick who he dates based on what all his friends think, although there would definitely be some issues if his date treated his friends like shit. Thankfully, he knows he doesn't have to deal with anything like that, because Cas is truly a gift from whatever deity is floating around in the sky.

“Huh,” Dean acknowledges, deciding to save that particular conversation with Jo for later. He's just glad that Adam was nice to Cas and didn't give Dean any reason to find him and teach him a lesson about manners.

And, apparently, Dean has somehow become very possessive and protective. It's not a new thing for Dean when it comes to his family, but it's definitely a very new thing when it comes to relationships. He'll have to learn how to tone that shit down before it gets him in trouble.

Jo comes back a few minutes later looking much better, perkier and fully clothed with her hair all brushed out and smooth. She washed the makeup from her face, and despite the few small blemishes on her pale skin, she has a natural beauty that shines and makes her look a lot younger than she is. He has to fight the urge to tease her about looking twelve, because even though it's his job to give her a hard time, Dean figures he's been rough enough with the wake-up call and pants lecture.

“What's this surprise at the garage?” Dean asks her, sitting down on the couch and folding his arms behind his head.

“You'll see it when you see it, won't ya?” Jo retorts, still being a pain in the ass. “Besides, Charlie would kill me if I told you. I told her you wouldn't like it, but does anyone listen to me? Nope.”

“I'm not going to like it?” Dean whined, the possibilities of what it could be running through his head again. “Dammit.”

“Not if you're the same Winchester I've come to know and sometimes love. I've got a twenty dollar bet with Bobby that you're going to throw a bitch fit over it.” Jo puts her shoes on and shoves the rest of her things in her small messenger bag, tucking her loose hair behind her ears.

“It can't be that bad, can it?” Cas asks, letting the blanket around him drop to the ground now that he's more awake and warming up, still sipping on his coffee.

“You might not think so, but Dean probably will,” Jo gives Cas a big hug, wrapping her arms around him and pressing her body against his. She holds him far longer than necessary, and then has the balls to wink at Dean while she does it. Must be her revenge for Dean's revenge – damn, she's good. She finally lets him go and waves goodbye, leaving through the front door.

“I wonder what it could be,” Cas muses, sitting beside Dean on the couch. “What would they surprise you with that I would like, but you wouldn't?”

Dean takes a deep breath and shrugs. “I have no idea, but the sooner you get that sexy ass dressed, the sooner we can leave and figure it out.”

Cas blushes, just barely, a soft rosy glow overtaking his face that he tries to hide behind the coffee mug. He swallows the rest of his coffee in two big gulps, and Dean finds himself mesmerized by the way Cas' throat works as he swallows.

It feels so natural to be sitting here in Cas' home, watching him move around in just his underwear and gawking at him like a pervert. He's comfortable here, more than just being welcome, like he could never leave and he'd just fit right in with the household. Dean never felt this way at Lisa's place, he never felt like it could have been his home too. Being at her home usually made him feel awkward, like he was some kind of accessory that she couldn't find a place for, a framed picture with no wall space left to hang him on. She didn't have a fancy home, or expensive furniture or doilies and shit, but Dean still felt a weird sense of guilt for sitting on her couch or putting his feet up on her coffee table.

All the more reason he's glad to have Cas now. This place feels like a second home to Dean, somewhere he can relax and be himself. They've already built up a few fun memories here, too. Hell, this is where he and Cas had their first date, right on this very couch, with a scary movie and a bowl of popcorn.

Dean really doesn't want to have to wait for those few nights a week when he gets to crash here or have Cas over at his place. The nights he's alone will feel like such a waste.

Cas interrupts his thoughts by setting the mug down on the coffee table and throwing himself on Dean, crawling into his lap and kissing him like there's no tomorrow. It's awkward at first because Dean isn't exactly Mr. Suave when he's caught off guard, but they eventually fall into a good rhythm, licking into each other's mouths as Dean gropes at all of Cas' exposed skin.

Then Cas pulls away, stepping back off Dean's lap with a few final kisses on his jaw, saying “to be continued,” as he walks off toward his bedroom to get dressed.

“Not cool,” Dean complains, dropping his head back onto the couch. “Bastard.”

“I heard that!” Cas calls from the bedroom, laughing. It only takes him a minute to throw on some clean clothes, a pair of jeans and KU hoodie, before he's walking back into the living room again with a knowing smirk on his face. “I figured I might as well do that every time I get the urge, now that I can.”

“What, try to get into my pants?”

“Kissing you, silly. You have no idea how many times I wanted to do that when you were all greased up in the garage, totally unattainable,” Cas recalled, still smiling at the memory.

“Pfft. I was totally attainable,” Dean disagrees, remembering how badly he wanted to take Cas on the garage floor every time he was there, watching Dean work on that beauty of a car.

“Well, regardless, I'm rather pleased we were able to scale those particular hurdles. I like kissing you.” Cas emphasized his point by leaning over Dean and stealing another kiss, just a quick one on his cheek. “Let's go see what the surprise is, hm?”

* * * * *

If Dean is being perfectly honest, he's not exactly thrilled to be going to the garage.

It's not that there's a surprise there that he's apparently going to hate – okay, that's part of it, but it's not the _whole_ reason – Dean is mostly afraid that everyone is going to pester him about Sam and what happened to him in California. He never did get back to Bobby or Charlie about it, at least not in as much detail as they would have liked. He texted them the basic outline of what went down that first night, which sucked major balls because his hands were still swollen and sore, and they never asked for more information. Dean figured they were just waiting to pounce on him the moment they got back, and despite having last night to himself, to organize his thoughts and try to prepare what he wanted to say, he's still not ready.

They arrive at the garage and see everyone's cars parked out front. Dean already knew that Bobby and Charlie would be here, since Charlie is the one with the big damn surprise, but Ellen's car is here too along with Jo's. He worries for a moment that the surprise is actually another one of their conferences to sit and talk about Dean or Sam, because that is definitely something he wouldn't enjoy that Cas might.

Since Dean had walked over to Cas' house, they ended up driving to the garage in Cas' truck, the one Bobby loaned him after Dean smashed up the Z16. He still feels really bad about that. He'll have to come up with some way to repay Cas for all his unending patience and understanding.

Cas parks the truck and they head inside. The moment Dean is inside the door, Charlie rushes him and leaps up into his arms, clinging to him like some kind of spider monkey. She's screaming for joy, some long string of happy noises and her hold on him tightens until he feels like she's going to crush his ribcage. Apparently no one else can see that Dean is gasping for breath because they're laughing and watching like it's a hilarious sitcom.

After what seems like forever, Charlie finally lets him go and drops to her feet on the ground. The studio audience that had just been laughing and clapping must have been given a new signal, because they're more quiet and simply looking at the two of them in approval. Dean considers giving her a hug back, then wonders if he'd crush her if he tried to return the favor by jumping in her arms, but eventually decides on putting her in a headlock and rubbing his knuckles into her fiery red hair.

“Okay! Okay!” Charlie relents, trying to wriggle free from Dean's hold. He lets her go and she sticks her tongue out at him like they're in elementary school. “Welcome back, my magical unicorn.”

“Oh Jesus,” Dean complains, shaking his head. “No, not that shit anymore. For the love of all that is holy and sacred, do not call me a unicorn.”

“Would you prefer Sally?” It's Ellen speaking now, with a big grin on her face. Great, she's in on the joke too. Dean is never going to live that stupid nickname down, ever.

As much as Dean hates being made fun of, especially with lame little monikers that only work to emasculate him, it's a lot better than what he feared would happen. He'd much rather be the topic of conversation than Sam, or the road trip, or anything that happened in California. It's actually a little weird that no one seems depressed or sad about it, that they're not bugging him immediately or even trying to contact Sam themselves.

It's almost as if they don't really care.

Dean's not sure how he feels about that.

Once everyone has had their fill of laughter, poking fun at Dean and his alleged magical unicorn powers, Charlie grabs him by the elbow and drags him deeper into the garage. Everyone follows behind them, murmuring and whispering just quiet enough so Dean can't hear. It's annoying and he doesn't understand the point of all this, of making it a big deal and having a surprise for him in the first place. They all know that Dean isn't a fan of being surprised, enough that everyone carefully respects his wishes not to celebrate his birthday or accept presents on major holidays, which only makes this whole situation that much more confusing.

Then he's standing in front of a covered car, which pretty much looks exactly like the shape of Cas' Z16. He doesn't understand. If Charlie finished fixing the car while they were gone, why is it a surprise for Dean?

“Ready?” Charlie asks, bouncing on her heels, being entirely too excited and fidgety for Dean's comfort. He shrugs, looking back at Cas. Cas looks a little confused, but not as much as Dean. Maybe he knows something about this that Dean doesn't.

“Some of us have lives to get back to, Charlie,” Bobby grumbles, growing impatient. Yeah, Dean can sympathize that. He's ready to get this over with so he can leave and get some shit done, too. He's got a long road ahead of him with his house and he'd like to get started on it as soon as possible. He doesn't want to spend any more nights with all of John and Sam's junk if he can help it.

Charlie throws Bobby a scowl, then bounds forward like the overly eager rabbit she is and rips the covering off the Chevelle in one quick motion.

Well, this is not what Dean was expecting.

The once beautiful, gunmetal gray Z16 is fully repaired, but also completely repainted. The gray and intricate detail that set the Chevelle apart is gone, replaced with an earthy, almost-light green. The green is actually really familiar, in an awkward, uncomfortable sort of way. He knows that green, like really _knows_ it, and then it hits him that it's the exact same color as his eyes.

Um. Okay.

“Uh...” Dean starts, confused, not knowing what to say. He doesn't understand how this is a surprise for him, and he especially doesn't get why anyone would change the gorgeous paint job it had before.

“Is that...is that the color of Dean's eyes?” Cas asks, stepping forward and standing beside Dean. Oh, right, this was supposed to be a surprise for Cas too, but how could Charlie paint someone's car without getting their approval first?

Not that Dean has any room to talk, considering what he's done to it himself.

“Yep!” Charlie chimes, the happy expression on her face starting to falter. “I texted Cas and asked him if he wanted to change the color of his car, since it was dinged up pretty bad, and he said to surprise him. So...surprise!”

Dean and Cas simply stand there, their mouth's slightly open as they stare in shock and absorb the new information. Jo starts laughing her ass off in the background, telling Bobby to pay up.

“Hold yer horses, Jo,” Bobby says, trying to hold back his own laughter now, “he hasn't thrown a bitch fit yet.”

As Dean looks at the car, he gets a weird feeling in his gut. Cas' car is painted the exact color of Dean's eyes, which is pretty fucking weird, and also portrays a certain level of commitment that he's not certain he's ready for. He just had this argument with himself last night, about how unready he is to have a more serious relationship, but having a car painted to look just like your lover's eyes? That seems like something only people who have been married for twenty years would do. He and Cas have only been dating for, what, a month?

Plus, even weirder is the fact that Cas didn't choose this color himself. So now he's stuck in the weird position of either liking it and making Dean kind of uncomfortable, or not liking it and potentially hurting Dean's feelings. What would it say about their relationship if Cas was totally against this? Or, if he's super thrilled to have a Dean's Eye-mobile?

“Look at his face, you can totally tell he's having an internal bitch fit. I win,” Jo insists, poking a finger into Bobby's shoulder.

“Doesn't count,” Bobby says.

“You don't love it?” Charlie whines, stepping closer to them. “You guys are totally gross for each other, I thought it would be romantic.”

“Flowers are romantic. This is a little...creepy,” Cas finally says, raising an eyebrow. Dean laughs at that, thinking he couldn't have said it better himself. He's relieved, too, because he would honestly cringe if he ever saw Cas driving his car like this around town.

Dean takes Cas' hand and pulls him into a hug, trying to hide the fact that he's giggling now at how silly this whole thing is. Cas is laughing too, hugging him back, and the crowd around them starts to thin as Jo forks over twenty bucks and Ellen says something about getting back to work.

“See? Utterly and irrevocably gross for each other.”

 


	18. Chapter 18

Three months later, Dean and Cas are still gross for each other, as Charlie would say.

Dean got his job back at the garage after a long, much needed conversation with Bobby. Neither of them are the heart-to-heart kind of people, but their talk was as close to that as it could possibly get without either of them spontaneously sprouting a vagina. They talked about all the things that Dean didn't want to get into, but he felt better by the end of it. They talked about Sam, about Ruby, and even a bit about John. Bobby was determined to get everything off of Dean's chest, not just out of fatherly concern, but as his employer as well. He doesn't want a repeat of what happened with the Chevelle.

Bobby made a point to reinforce the fact that what Sam is doing isn't Dean's fault. He said that Sam is a full grown man, able to make his own choices and mistakes, and that it should have never been Dean's responsibility to take care of him in the first place. Dean knew this already, having worked through it with Cas' help on their way back to Lawrence, but he let Bobby say it and repeat it anyway. Bobby needed to hear it out loud as much as Dean did, he needed to feel like he was helping Dean in the way he could never help John.

With everyone's help, Dean managed to get most of the stuff cleared out of his house. Cas ended up buying the truck from Bobby, and they loaded the trunk up with everything Dean wasn't able to sell. Dean kept the couch, but he said goodbye to his dad's recliner, the television and the dinky table it sat on, and even the dining table. He considered refinishing it to give it a new look, but Dean didn't want to have to think about all the uneaten meals, the too-sweet carrots, Sam doing his homework or Lisa fighting with John. He was sad to see the dining table go, but some pieces of furniture can only hold so many memories before they've got to get the fuck out.

Charlie helped him list a lot of the stuff online, and Dean ended up with a few hundred bucks once everything was sold. It took him a month, but Dean finally did something he's always wanted to do – he built his own dining table from wood and supplies, then coated it with a beautiful, deep red stain. He plans to do the same with his bed, he wants to build a bed frame with shelving or drawers or something equally cool, but he can't quite decide on what he wants. He's got a king-sized mattress now, which is just sitting on the floor until he gets the frame built, but he's never been so happy to go to bed in his entire life.

Cas bought Dean a huge, flat screen television after he got rid of John's old shitty one, and Dean really did try his hardest to decline. It was way too extravagant of a gift, far too expensive for him to be comfortable with it, but Cas insisted that Dean needed a reliable television for their date nights. He said it just wasn't the same watching a scary movie without high definition or surround sound, which Dean couldn't argue with. He just has to keep reminding himself that he's dating someone who can afford things like that, and that it's up to Cas how he spends his money. Dean really doesn't want to turn into one of those people who just expects fancy things because they're dating a fancy person, and he doesn't want Cas to feel like he's being used, especially since Cas is already so far out of Dean's league that it's not even funny.

But, despite Dean's protests, Cas insists repeatedly that it's okay, he wants to spoil him, he's worth it.

And yeah, on the date nights they decided to stay home and watch a movie, high definition makes things a hell of a lot scarier.

On the date nights they decided to go out, Dean learned how to be okay with public displays of affection. It's not so much that he's against it, he just hates the idea that homophobic assholes with nothing better to do could see them and give them shit for it. Dean doesn't want to have to deal with all of that, with people who make it their business to humiliate and harass two guys out on a date. Going to that hockey game in Salt Lake City really helped Dean to realize that it could be okay, that they can go places and kiss in public and people won't treat them any differently. Plus, even if Cas won't admit it, he loves it when Dean holds his hand or kisses his cheek when they're out and about. He always blushes and smiles, and that alone makes it worth it. Dean doesn't have much to give, he isn't rich or smart or charming, but if he can make Cas feel special with a few simple gestures, then he's going to do it.

One thing Dean didn't predict when they first got back into town was how many nights they would actually spend together. It wasn't something they talked about or planned in advance, it just sort of happened that every night, neither of them really wanted to say goodbye or go home to sleep alone. They would find the silliest excuses to stay, as if they really needed an excuse at all. Half the time they ended up crashing on the couch, or on the floor in front of the television, and the other half was spent snuggling up to each other in bed. Dean can count the number of times they actually slept alone on one hand, and while it's kind of a scary thought, he knows he's never slept this good and _damn_ it's nice to be well rested.

They had a small hiccup in their relationship about two months after they got back, and really, Dean should have seen it coming. Sleeping together nearly every single night for two months while living just down the street from each other was bound to raise the issue of moving in together, but Dean didn't expect that Cas would be the one to bring it up. He had asked Dean what he thought about it, and mentioned how much simpler it would be since they already practically live together, but the question made Dean freak out more than he should have. That was the first night they slept apart, awkward and painful and a little heartbreaking, but that was something Dean just wasn't ready for. Cas understood and they worked it out the next day, but Dean hasn't been able to get it off his mind since.

He stays in touch with Jessica, which was weird at first but eventually it started feeling more natural. She kept him up to date on Sam and his whereabouts, at least what she was able to figure out through rumors and some mutual friends. Dean's not interested in stalking his brother or doing anything with the information, he just wants to make sure he knows right away if something bad happens. It was hard enough when John died, when Dean didn't know how to get in contact with Sam to tell him the news, and he's afraid that if something happened to Sam, he'd never know. He's made peace with what happened in California, but he can't turn a blind eye to the fact that Sam could die any day. Sure, things ended between them on pretty bad terms, but he'd never let his brother die without a proper funeral and he sure as Hell isn't getting buried anywhere except next to their parents.

Dean ended up getting along really well with Adam. He didn't make much of an effort in the beginning, he was still a little bitter from their first encounter, but Jo promised him that Adam was sorry and he'd never do it again. It seemed kind of childish, but whatever. Jo really liked the guy, and he did apologize to Dean the next time they met, so he figured he might as well give the guy a shot. He's glad he did, because he and Adam have a lot in common and he treats Jo like a princess. Fortunately, Jo has a good head on her shoulders and she's got her shit together, and she can defend herself just fine. There's just that weird feeling Dean gets in his gut whenever he and Adam are in the same room, a little prickling under his skin every time Adam does or says something that feels entirely too familiar.

It's summer now, right in the middle of June, which means Dean gets to work on cars outside beneath the toasty sun. It's been damn near eighty degrees every day, so more often than not, he ends up tugging off his sweaty shirt, wiping his face with it, then tossing it to the side to work the rest of his shift shirtless. The heat and sunlight have really brought out his freckles, especially over the tops of his shoulders and around the nape of his neck. Cas enjoys playing connect-the-dots with his tongue over each freckle, a game he proudly wins every time. Dean loves it, especially when he makes it to the little freckles on the soft patch of skin just above his dick. It's pretty much Dean's most favorite game of all time.

Dean and Cas have fallen into a comfortable routine, but the summer months have made Cas reluctant to spend too much time outside. He used to bring lunch to the garage to eat with Dean and Charlie, but the last couple of weeks he's opted to stay at home because he's not a fan of the sweltering heat, especially in the middle of the day when the sun is at its brightest. Dean was sad about it at first, sulking around the employee lunch table and annoying the hell out of Charlie, but now he's glad for it. He's been trying to come up with some way to repay Cas for everything he's done, for being the greatest boyfriend in existence, and he's finally decided to man up and give Cas what he really wants. He's got to bring Charlie in on it, because he's going to need her help, and having that time alone with her during the lunch break is the perfect time to talk about it.

Initially, Dean just wanted to get Cas something nice, like an engraved watch, but eventually he decided against it. Cas can afford to buy pretty much whatever he wants, so anything Dean could actually afford would probably be lame. Sure, Cas would accept it gracefully and never make Dean feel insecure about it, but he wants to give Cas something that will actually make him happy. Like, so happy that his eyes burst out of their sockets at the sight of it. And, of course, the only thing Cas wants that badly is what he can't buy, what he can't get for himself. He wants to live with Dean, to move in together and start building a real life. As much as Dean was scared about it before, he thinks he's finally ready for it. He loves Cas, and even though they only met about five months ago, it's been the greatest five months of his life.

So, Dean is going to get a second house key made, wrap it up in a small box and bow, and give it to Cas tonight at the Roadhouse. He's been so nervous and excited about it that he kept dazing off at work, forgetting important steps on repairs, and even tripped over his creeper board and fell to the ground like an idiot.

It's finally lunch time, so he quickly cleans up his area before heading into the break room. Charlie is already in there, sitting at the table and eating yogurt. Dean reaches into the fridge for his lunch, which is just a sandwich, a coke, and a Snickers bar. Cas used to bring to most amazing homemade lunches, like grilled chicken wraps and mushroom ravioli, so he's had to readjust to eating boring foods again. It's another upside to Cas moving in, though. Once they live together, he might be able to convince Cas to make him those delicious lunches every day.

Charlie whines when she sees Dean's lunch, equally displeased by the lack of Cas' cooking. “Ugh, lame. When is your boyfriend going to bring us food again?”

“When it cools down, I guess,” Dean sits at the table across from Charlie, unwrapping his sandwich and popping open his coke. “He hates the heat.”

“Maybe he should get one of those frilly umbrellas to protect that pale skin of his, like those Elizabethan women used to.”

Dean rolls his eyes, “I'll let him know you said that.”

“Sweet,” Charlie smiles, then spots Dean's candy bar. “Hey, can I have your Snickers?”

Dean is about say _fuck no, it's mine_ , but then he realizes he can use it to bargain with her, to get her to help him out on his secret mission. “Sure, but on one condition.”

“Pfft. What do I gotta do?”

He feels a little silly doing it, but he looks around to make sure no one else is listening before he says, “I'm asking Cas to move in with me tonight, but I need you to cover for me so I can get everything set up.”

Charlie's eyes widen until it looks like she has saucers on her face, and then she's squealing. “Oh my God, that's so awesome! Yay! Are you gonna have a housewarming party? Please say you'll have a housewarming party.”

Dean laughs, relieved that Charlie approves. “Whoa, slow down there, crazy. I haven't even asked him yet, remember? But sure, Cas is totally into that hosting stuff. You two could plan it and do whatever you want.”

“Really? Dude, being with Cas has made you so awesome. I mean, I loved you before, but you were kind of a dick.”

“Yeah yeah, I know. Anyway, can you cover for me today? I really need to take off so I can go get a second key made, and get something to wrap it in.”

“Aww, you're going to wrap it? You big softie,” Charlie smiled, eating another spoonful of yogurt. “But yes, I will cover for you. Now give me that Snickers.”

Dean pushes the candy bar toward Charlie, feeling victorious as she picks it up off the table and rips into it immediately. She basically agreed to take on double the work by herself for the rest of the day in exchange for something that cost a dollar, but Dean is smart enough to know not to point that out. Charlie's mouth is full of chocolate and peanuts, and she's got that euphoric look on her face that means she's not in the mood for talking.

He finishes his sandwich in record time, then starts chugging his coke. Unfortunately, chugging soda is way harder than it looks, so after a few gulps he has to stop. Dean sets the can down by Charlie and offers it to her as well, which she gladly accepts to help wash down the thick caramel stuck on her teeth. Dean mouths _thanks, see you later_ , and then he's out the door and on his way to get everything done.

The first stop is, obviously, the hardware store. He's never actually had keys duplicated before, so he doesn't know how long it will take or how much it will cost. Dean only knows that the hardware store has one of those key cutting machines because he heard Charlie talking about it years ago when she and Gilda first moved in together. He just hopes it's not crazy expensive or time consuming, because he's got to have it done before tonight. Yeah, he could wait a week or whatever to ask Cas to move in, but he's not very good at keeping that kind of secret, especially when he'd have to see Cas every day.

Funny enough, the ten minute drive to the hardware store ended up taking longer than it did to get the key copied. There was no one else in line and the guy behind the counter looked both incredibly bored and stoned. The guy scratched at his long, ridiculous beard as he took the key and spent all of two minutes at the little machine. Dean looked around at all the key accessories, because he didn't even know that key accessories existed or were a _thing_ until just now, and now he's wondering whether or not Cas would want a decorative key or a key chain.

Dean snaps himself out of it. He's just getting a key made and giving it to his boyfriend. He's not turning into a damn woman. He takes the key when it's finished and pays a whopping two dollars and fifty cents at the self check out.

The girliest part of this whole set up is next. He's got to find something to put the key in, maybe some wrapping paper or a ribbon or whatever he can find that's relatively simple. He has no idea where to go for something like that, maybe Walmart because that store has pretty much everything, but he chooses instead to sit in the Home Depot parking lot while he texts Charlie for a suggestion.

**Dean Winchester 1:12 PM**

**> > where do I go for a like a small box**

**Charlie Bradbury 1:13 PM**

**< < a small box?**

**Dean Winchester 1:13 PM**

**> > ya like a key sized box. gotta rap this thing**

**> > *wrap**

**Charlie Bradbury 1:14 PM**

**< < oh gotcha. Try hallmark. They have tons of gift-giving stuff**

**Dean Winchester 1:14 PM**

**> > sweet thanks bradbury**

**Charlie Bradbury 1:15 PM**

**< < you owe me big time. Gotta go. Bobby is giving me the stink eye.**

Dean doesn't actually have any idea where Hallmark is, he's never been there before and he's pretty sure he's never even seen it. He doesn't have a smart phone, either, so he can't just look it up like Cas does when they are out and want to try something new. He can't keep bothering Charlie, she's got to work twice as hard now and they're not supposed to have their phones on in the garage. Dean could ask Jo, but she would end up pestering him about what he intends to get and why. He doesn't want everyone know just yet, and she's got a bigger mouth than Charlie.

He decides to just try and figure it out on his own. If he doesn't miraculously stumble upon Hallmark by driving around town, he'll just go to Walmart and find something there.

As Dean's luck would have it, he couldn't find Hallmark to save his fucking life. He drove around Lawrence for nearly an hour, which is incredible considering it takes maybe twenty minutes to drive through town. He got so frustrated that he ended up just going to Walmart, but they didn't have any small boxes either. Dean even went to the jewelry center, knowing they must have some small boxes to put their rings in, but no one was at the counter and he didn't want anyone to get the wrong idea if they saw him reaching behind the glass cases for a box.

Empty handed and fucking frustrated as hell, Dean figured it must have been some kind of sign. He's not a big believer in signs, but it is pretty girly to wrap up a key and present it like a damn engagement ring. Maybe it's for the best, because being with Cas has really melted away the tough exterior that used to define him, that he used to keep tight around him like a shield to ward off anyone dumb enough to try and steal his heart. Yet here he is, angry that he can't find the right sized box to put the duplicate key in, because he's essentially going to propose to his boyfriend with it on their date tonight. It is literally the gayest thing that Dean has ever done, aside from actually sleeping with guys, so maybe skipping the box and anything else too mushy or romantic would be wise.

Dean sends Cas a short text, telling him to be at the Roadhouse tonight because Dean will be there waiting for him with a special surprise. He sends him a second text, correcting any confusion that there might be over the word _surprise_ , and confesses that it's actually a present. He doesn't want Cas showing up expecting or fearing some kind of surprise party.

If Dean can help it, it will just be him and Cas and no one else watching them or getting too nosy. He can picture Charlie showing up, acting casual like it was a total coincidence, then sitting somewhere close enough where she can spy on them.

As much as it hurts Dean to think about, there's a very real chance that Cas could decline Dean's offer. After all, Cas had already brought this issue up with Dean before, nervously asking him what he thought about living together. Dean had basically flat out rejected him, freaking out and insisting that it was too much like getting married. Cas was embarrassed and brokenhearted, his face red and eyes watery as he excused himself and left. It's entirely possible that Cas could have changed his mind since then, that he doesn't want to live Dean after all or that his emotional rebuff had been too painful. Or, knowing Cas' tendency to return favors, he could simply turn Dean down to teach him a lesson.

If any of that happens, he definitely doesn't want other people to see it happen, especially Charlie. She has some kind of savior complex that is always trying to rescue Dean even when he doesn't want it, and she would undoubtedly turn it into a bigger deal than it is. Rejection is embarrassing enough, even without an audience, and Dean would be pretty fucking red himself if Cas declined the key.

Even though Cas is excited about his mysterious present and a date at the Roadhouse, Dean feels a bit guilty for texting him instead of inviting him with a love note. They still leave each other love notes all the time, but there's no guarantee that Cas would check his mailbox or read the message before tonight. He probably won't check it again until the morning, and that wouldn't do Dean any good. Maybe he should have planned this whole thing a little better, starting with a love note checked by Cas first in the morning, followed by a fun day together, ending with a date at the Roadhouse and gift-wrapped key complete with a key chain. Cas would say yes for sure with all that gooey romantic shit.

But Dean isn't nearly that well organized or patient, and he's already got his current plan set in motion. Hopefully Cas doesn't care that the key isn't wrapped. Technically, it's not a gift unless it's actually packaged, or put into something he can open. Whatever, he can't find a box and he's already wasted enough time thinking about this and trying to find one.

Dean ends up going home, not because he's given up, but because he thinks he should get the house nice and clean so Cas can come over and still feel good about his decision (assuming he says yes, anyway). Sure, Cas has been over to his house plenty, and it wasn't always clean, but he figures that Cas will view the house differently after he agrees to move into it. He'll see it as _his_ house, a home with the potential to fulfill _his_ dreams and spend the rest of _his_ life in. Cas deserves to see a spotless house with those new eyes, especially since he'll probably make Dean keep it cleaner than he usually does anyway.

He spends the whole afternoon cleaning, even though the house wasn't that dirty to begin with. As each hour passes, Dean gets more and more nervous about what he's going to do, so he just keeps cleaning to keep his mind occupied. He deep cleans the kitchen, scrubbing the floors and clearing out his junk drawer. He throws out all the old food from the fridge, makes sure every dish and glass is washed and sparkling, and even cleans the windows with some paper towels and Windex.

Dean takes special care wiping down the dining table he built, fantasizing about all the hot sex he plans on having with Cas when they're living together. He pictures Cas standing in the kitchen, wearing nothing but his underwear or maybe nothing at all, pouring himself a cup of coffee before the break of dawn. Dean imagines himself wrapping his arms around Cas, guiding him slowly to the table, then fucking him on it like they've got all the time in the world and no other responsibilities except to love each other. Besides, it would be a great way to test his craftsmanship, to make sure the table is as solid and sturdy as Dean made it to be.

When he's done in the kitchen, he moves on to the living room. He uses the new carpet shampooer he bought himself to scrub both the carpet and the couch. They weren't exactly dirty either, but Dean has never stopped being self conscious about his home smelling like a stale bar. John had spilled his drinks so many times, especially when it was late and he was too drunk to hold his glass upright, and after Dean had fallen asleep. The alcohol would soak into the carpet overnight, and even though Dean managed to get the stains out, he could never quite get rid of the smell. He doesn't want Cas to change his mind because it smells like his late father. He doesn't want Cas have any reason to say no.

The second bedroom is empty, and Dean keeps his bedroom meticulously clean already. There's not much left for him to do around the house, but he's spent a good four hours getting everything perfect and that's probably enough. It's a little after six in the evening, and he's got to be at the Roadhouse in an hour. He needs a good shower and a shave, now that he's all sweaty and smells like household cleaners.

Dean is still incredibly nervous, so he runs the shower extra hot to help him relax. He's starting to wonder if this is a good idea, or if he's moving too fast. Shit, he had never really pictured himself settling down and living with anyone who wasn't John or Sam. Quite frankly, he never pictured himself settling anywhere at all, not even by himself. He grew up on the road, and he thought he'd die on the road. Dean lived and breathed the pavement, the smell of burning rubber and the way the bench seat felt beneath his back before he fell asleep. His imagined future was always full of motel rooms, cities he'd never been to but always wanted see, and his beautiful Baby taking him there while he listened to Traveling Riverside Blues.

Staying in Lawrence was a big deal for the Winchesters. Dean bought the house because his father couldn't, too much debt and a terrible credit score, no income or references. He bought the house with hopes of fixing it up and living there long term, but at first that dream included John and Sam. Sam left, and that dream wilted until he figured he'd at least always have John.

The first time Dean ever thought about living with someone that wasn't a Winchester was when he decided to propose to Lisa. Yeah, the proposal had been rushed and awkward because she'd been acting distant, but he never thought out the details. He didn't think about where they would live or what they do, he was just so desperate and afraid of losing her that he forgot about all the potential consequences. After she said yes, Dean just kind of figured that they would get their own place and he'd give his dad the house. He'd still take care of his dad, he would stop by every day and check on him, make sure he was alive and okay and eating right, but Lisa left before they ever had the chance to talk about it.

Dean doesn't know why he's feeling this way, why he's second guessing himself or what changed in the small amount of time between getting the key made and right now. His heart is galloping in his chest, he's thinking about all the worst case scenarios and he's even shaking a little bit. The hot water isn't doing much to help, it's not calming him down or centering him like he hoped it would. God, what if he gives Cas the key, then he ends up disappearing a week later? What if Dean wakes up one day to find a break up letter instead of a love note? Fuck, he doesn't know what he would do if that happened.

Cas wouldn't do that to him, would he?

No, he wouldn't. Cas is straightforward, honest, open, and trustworthy. He's never been afraid to tell Dean exactly what was on his mind, and he'd been honest about everything so far even when he knew it could have affected their relationship. Cas was the first to say he was in love. Cas was the first to propose moving in together. This is what Cas ultimately wants, and Dean really wants it to. He wants it really, really bad.

Dean finishes up his scalding shower, then does his best to find something decent and maybe a little romantic to wear. Cas has never complained about Dean's band t-shirts or his holey jeans, but he knows Cas has a weak spot for seeing Dean all dressed up. He practically drooled the first time he saw Dean in something other than his usual garb, when he dressed up for their first date at the Roadhouse in what Charlie described as “fuckable.” Dean doesn't have a lot of clothes like that, but he does have a a lightweight button up shirt that will do. It's a dark purple color, something Jo picked out for him years ago and claimed would bring out his hair and eyes.

He puts it on and pairs it with some clean, hole-free jeans. Dean considered wearing slacks or something a little more formal, but he's just not that kind of guy and Cas will understand. He does, however, style his hair within an inch of its life, spending far too much time in front of the mirror with the hopes that he doesn't look like he was trying too hard. It's a stupid cultural paradox in which he has to look cleaned up and fancy while also appearing as though he doesn't care and everything on his body is unintentional. What the fuck ever. This is why he doesn't give a shit about style.

Dean spent too much time on his face and his hair, and now he's running late. He rummages through his sock drawer for a pair that actually matches, and at the time he finds some, his hand also grazes a small familiar box.

It's his Sebenza knife, the one Sam, Bobby and Ellen collaborated to buy for Dean the first Christmas they spent in Lawrence. It's so special to him that he's afraid to carry it around or take it out of the house, worried that he might lose it or that someone would try to steal it. It's beautiful and wildly expensive, which turns out to be a good thing because that means it came in a small, high quality box that he can use to put Cas' key in.

He feels bad taking the knife out of the box and setting it unprotected in his sock drawer, but then he reminds himself that it's a damn durable knife and if he has to worry about it around socks, then it wasn't worth the money his family spent on it. Besides, the box is perfect, black and sleek with a little latch to keep it closed. It's so nice that he doesn't even have to wrap it, and it's slim enough that it will fit easily in his jeans. He grabs the key off the nightstand, sets it carefully inside the box, then shoves it into his front pocket.

Now Dean is officially ready to go. He's still nervous, still second-guessing himself, but he can do this. It's the right decision and he'll be happier for it. He repeats that mantra in his head, over and over and over until he arrives at the Roadhouse.

But when he parks, he thinks that maybe this is a horrible idea and he doesn't want to do it after all. He is suddenly so opposed to the whole thing that he can't believe he ever thought this was a good idea. Cas is too good for him and will laugh at him and leave just like Lisa did. There is no such thing as a happy ending and something must be seriously wrong with Dean for him to think he could actually go through with this.

Then there's a knocking on his window, and Cas is standing there looking sharp and beautiful as ever. He smiles, and it's the kind of smile that reaches his eyes and shines out of every orifice on his head. Dean can feel it melt his insides, warm him to the core, and all his nerves and worries dissipate like a fog rolling over the ocean. This is definitely the best idea he's ever had and he can totally do this.

“Hey handsome,” Dean says, stepping out of his Baby and locking it behind him. He smiles back at Cas, trying his best to be charming.

“I was going to say the same thing to you,” Cas confesses, taking Dean's hand and lacing their fingers together. “You look really nice. Amazing, actually.”

Dean blushes, but turns his face away in an attempt to keep it hidden. Cas chuckles low and softly, running his thumb over Dean's.

“Yeah, I...uh, I wanted to make this special,” Dean finally says, stumbling over his words like he's a child still learning the English language. “Or, you know, whatever.”

“I've been wondering all day what it could be. I'm excited,” Cas says, squeezing his hand to give Dean that extra bit of reassurance. “It's not even a holiday or special occasion. You know that, right?”

Dean huffs. Of course he knows it's a normal day. “I know, I know. Trust me, this isn't because I mistakenly think it's your birthday or anything.”

“Which makes it all the more mysterious.”

“I just hope you like it,” Dean intones, opening the front door to let Cas walk inside first. He's not great at doing sweet and corny things, but does know the basics and he can be a gentleman if he tries hard enough.

“I'm sure I will,” Cas promises, looking around the bar for a place to sit. Normally, Dean insists on sitting somewhere near the back and out of the way, because he doesn't like being the center of attention and he's always worried someone will make fun of him. It's stupid, but Cas has been putting up with it for a long time and Dean wants to break that habit right here and now.

He pulls Cas over to the first booth, the one right in front of the main window. Anyone passing by or standing in the parking lot can see them. It kind of contradicts all his earlier thoughts, of not wanting to be seen in case he gets rejected, but being around Cas gives him a certain level of courage that he's never had before. Fuck anyone who tries to ruin this very special occasion, anyway.

Cas is clearly pleased, beaming at Dean's choice of seating. “Really? Dean, we don't have to sit here if you don't want to.”

Dean shakes his head. “No, I want to. Besides, we can see the moon from here and I think you look gorgeous under the moonlight.”

Okay, apparently being around Cas not only gives him courage, but a large dose of estrogen as well.

Cas laughs, still smiling, but looking slightly confused at the huge change in Dean's behavior. “What on Earth did I do to deserve all this? Must have been pretty big to get you to say something so cheesy.”

Now Dean is the one turning red, feeling out of place and completely out of his element. Dammit. Why is this so hard?

“It's about everything you do, Cas. I, uh...” Dean pauses, going over the words in his head again, “...you're really perfect, you know that? I mean, you've been there for me even when you didn't have to, you're really nice and you make me feel better about myself all the time. You really deserve the present, but I'll understand if you don't like it. I promise, no hard feelings.”

Cas narrows his eyes and looks at Dean like he's speaking gibberish. Honestly, that's probably exactly what's happening, considering Dean has never been this forward before or ever attempted to give Cas a surprise gift.

The waitress on duty interrupts them with a bright, bleached smile and a couple of drink menus. She's new here, and her shiny name tag reads MEG. It explains why she doesn't recognize them, because normally Dean doesn't have to order anything at all before someone brings him his usual drink. Dean just smiles back at her and asks for a couple of beers, hanging the menus back. If all goes well, they won't be spending much time at the bar anyway.

She walks off, and they return their attention to each other. Cas tilts his head, that cute little mannerism of his that he used to do all the time, and it only reinforces Dean's decision to follow through on this. “Why wouldn't I like it, Dean?”

Well, crap. There's no way to explain it that doesn't give it away, and he was hoping to have a beer in his system before he presented it to Cas, but he made the mistake of bringing it up too soon (okay, so he brought it up immediately) so he figures it's now or never.

“You'll see,” Dean says, so nervously that his voice nearly breaks. He reaches across the table and takes Cas' hands, holding them in his own and then bringing them to his lips, kissing the back of Cas' knuckles. “I just want you to know that it's really okay if you don't like it. I doesn't have to change anything, alright?”

Cas leans in, the corners of his lips tilting down in concern. “Dean, it's okay, I promise. You're starting to freak me out, though.”

“Sorry,” Dean laughs, still holding on to Cas' hands.

He's about to let go and reach into his pocket, when someone approaches their table. At first he assumes it must be Meg with their beers, but then he hears, “You're gay?”

Both he and Cas turn their heads at the same time toward the too-close voice, and Dean's heart abruptly stops.

She's standing there beside their table, looking down on them with disgust all over her face. It's Lisa, and she's dressed up with red lipstick and red fingernails and sexy red shoes. It twists his insides upside down, because she's put herself together in exactly the way Dean used to tell her he loved. Her hair falls in soft curls over her shoulders, her eyes are smoldering and she's practically glowing.

But that's not what has Dean so twisted up. It's not the first thing he saw when he turned his head. There's something very different about Lisa and he thinks he's going to be sick.

She's pregnant. Very pregnant.

“Dean?” Cas whispers, tugging on his hands.

Oh shit.

 


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is from Cas' perspective.

The silence is awkward, even more so than the way Dean continues to stare at the woman, his mouth agape, his eyes wide and hurting and murderous.

Cas recognizes her, though it takes a minute for his memory to catch up. At first, she just had that general familiarity about her, like maybe he had crossed her path sometime and their eyes met for a brief moment before passing each other and continuing on with their lives. All the red she's wearing triggers a specific memory, when he'd gone through Dean's wallet and saw the picture of her. She used to have a place in Dean's wallet, and in Dean's heart, and now she's inexplicably returned with a swollen middle and a hateful glare that burns into Cas' skin.

Lisa.

When she first approached them, questioning their sexuality, Cas had the impulse to tell her that yes, they were happily gay and on a date and Cas was about to open some kind of very special gift. But then he noticed the way Dean's face went paralyzed, shocked into stillness and emptying of color. Cas kept his silence, afraid to say something wrong, afraid to anger Dean or upset a woman who is clearly in a fragile state. Cas doesn't know very much about pregnancy, he's never had the occasion to study it or become intimately familiar with the process, but he does know that women as pregnant as Lisa often complain of a variety of ailments, including back and foot pain. It's a wonder, then, why she's wearing red heels.

Except, in reality, it makes perfect sense. She didn't dress for comfort, and she probably didn't end up at the Roadhouse accidentally. She dressed to impress, likely compensating for her additional weight, and came here looking for Dean.

Well, she found him. Cas can't say that he's surprised.

Dean still isn't saying anything. He's just staring away as if he's lost control of his mouth and tongue. Cas can practically see the thoughts racing through his mind, the questions and the doubts and the timeline of her pregnancy. It's difficult to say how far along she is, but Dean and Cas have only known each other for five months and she is certainly more than five months pregnant.

“Dean?” Cas says, gripping his hands tighter, trying to pull him out of whatever cyclone has him spinning in his own mind. It seems to help, because he finally glances at Cas and then back to Lisa, disbelief and anger warring on his face.

“Didn't take you very long to move on, did it?” Lisa snaps, and Cas wonders how much of her bitterness is magnified by pregnancy hormones. He didn't know her before, nothing outside of what Dean told him, which wasn't very much.

“I...” Dean starts, tripping over his tongue, “...what are you doing here?”

Lisa shifts her weight from one foot to the other, her hands resting on her hips. “So, you're gay now?”

Cas wants very badly to say something, to defend himself and the man he loves, but he doesn't want to test Dean's loyalty in this unfortunate situation. He wanted to marry this woman, he wanted to settle down with her and start a family. Despite the unanswered question hanging over their heads, Cas knows that this can't be easy for Dean and he has no interest in making it worse.

Cas doesn't get the chance to say anything, anyway. Dean looks absolutely furious now, like the anger and rage fuming inside him could engulf him in flames and swallow him whole. “What the fuck are you doing here?” Dean repeats, spitting the words like venom.

Lisa's confidence withers. Her stiff features seem to soften at the sound of Dean's voice, as if she's actually afraid of him. Cas wonders why that is, considering he's never known Dean to be a physically violent person. Actually, the careful and tender way that he sees Dean touch and interact with people would suggest the exact opposite.

“I need to talk to you,” she says, almost whispering. Her eyes are less commanding now, more pleading, and Cas suspects that she's using a face she knows that Dean will respond to.

“Outside,” Dean barks, releasing Cas' hands immediately and rising from the booth. He doesn't wait for Cas to stand, grabbing Lisa's wrist and almost dragging her through the doors. He's not hurting her or even gripping her that tightly, but it still unsettled Cas' already queasy stomach. It's the first time he's ever seen Dean treat a woman like anything less than a sacred blessing. Sure, he sometimes fights with his female friends, but he's never been rough or touched them the way he just tugged Lisa outside.

Cas doesn't know whether or not he should join them, but he knows he can't just sit inside the bar and wait for them to finish. His heart is beating so quickly that his fingertips tingle, so he takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. Cas stands and follows them out the door, trying to look through the darkness until his eyes adjust and he can see them.

They're fighting, and not very quietly. Cas approaches them, slowly, afraid one of them will yell at him to leave. As he gets closer, though, they don't even seem to notice him.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Dean is shaking his head, looking like the world has flipped upside down and he doesn't know which way is up.

“Why would I joke about this, Dean? It's the truth, whether you like it or not,” Lisa insists. She's holding her heels now, standing barefoot in front of Dean and nearly three inches shorter than she had been inside the Roadhouse. Cas huffs a small, internal laugh at the idea that she's literally barefoot and pregnant now, but the situation is entirely too sad and serious for the thought to last more than a second.

“And you're only telling me about this now? You didn't think I deserved to know right away?”

“I tried, Dean, but I couldn't. I wanted to tell you so badly, but I just didn't think it would end well. I thought it would be okay when you proposed, but then -”

“Whoa, wait,” Dean interrupts, cutting the air with the edge of his hand for emphasis, “You knew you were pregnant before you left?”

Lisa bites on her lower lip, water welling in her large brown eyes. “It's why I left.”

Dean wipes at his face, dragging his palm over his eyes and nose and mouth. He's processing what he's just heard, and by the way he's standing and trembling, Cas knows it's very unwanted information.

He remembers the way Dean drank himself into a stupor and sat on his parents' graves, crying and apologizing for all the wrong things he thinks he's done. His words were slurred and slow, thick like molasses on his tongue when he tried to speak. He spoke of Lisa, speculating about why she left, what the reason could have been for her to just disappear without even saying goodbye. Dean thought it was because of John, because his father was an angry drunk who apparently fought with Lisa on a regular basis. His theory made sense. After all, if you marry the man then you marry his family as well, and he figured Lisa couldn't handle being married into Dean's lifetime of baggage.

But now, the sudden way she left and the heartbreaking note she wrote are under a new light, being analyzed by a stronger microscope that can see into the sharp details of her betrayal. Lisa left because she was pregnant. She didn't want to have a family with Dean even though he wanted a family with her.

“Why,” is all Dean can say, his voice barely louder than the painful breath it took for him to say it.

Lisa takes a step closer to Dean, but Dean immediately steps back. Cas should feel bad for feeling this way, but he's glad that Dean doesn't want to be near her. He doesn't want Dean to be around this woman at all.

“Try to see it from my point of view, okay? You were barely keeping yourself and your dad afloat. You spent most of your free time with him, always trying to help him or make sure he was okay. He was draining you of your life, Dean! John was always drunk and he treated me like a disease. I just couldn't imagine bringing a baby into that. I already had to compete for your attention, and I didn't want our baby to have to compete for it, too,” Lisa explained, tears spilling over her bronze, glowing cheeks.

She's crying now, but Cas doesn't feel sorry for her. He tries to control his less than favorable impulses, because he should know better than to hate this woman he doesn't even know, but every part of himself recognizes the threat she presents to his relationship with Dean. Cas can't help it.

“You're such a fucking bitch,” Dean retorted, uncaring that she's crying. He looks like he's about to walk away, but then he stops and lets out a weak, angry laugh. “You really thought I wouldn't want the baby? You really thought that baby would have to compete for my fucking attention?”

“Give me a break. Like you don't know? You don't see it? Everyone loves you, Dean. Everyone wants your time and your attention. I always had to fight for my position by your side, to feel like I was special or important to you at all. You never had time for me or anyone else because you were always with your asshole dad!” Lisa's yelling caught the attention of a few bystanders, who were stopped now and watching the fight unfold. Cas doesn't want to create more drama by telling them to leave, and honestly, he doesn't want to miss what Dean and Lisa have to say to each other. He stays quiet.

“Who the fuck do you think you're talking to? Do you know me at all? My dad _needed_ me, Lisa. I do what I can to take care of the people who need me. I'm not perfect at it, but goddammit at least I try. I didn't spend a lot of time with anyone else because they didn't need me like he did. But my own child? That baby would need me more than anyone else, including my dad. I would _never_ do anything to make my own child feel unloved. You should know that,” Dean says, accusing her with the point of his finger.

Lisa doesn't look convinced. She's sniffing and wiping her tears away with the back of her hand. “I know you honestly believe that, and I know you're a good guy who tries really hard to make everyone happy. It was one of the things that made me fall in love with you, Dean, but raising a baby is a lot harder than it looks.”

If Dean wasn't frenetically enraged before, he is now.

This is both new and scary for Cas, because he's never seen Dean like this before. He's seen Dean in a variety of compromising positions, wearing a multitude of masks to hide the bevy of emotions storming beneath, but he's never seen Dean this upset. He wasn't even this angry when he saw his brother Sam, when he met Ruby and found the drugs beneath their bathroom sink. He wasn't this angry when his father died or when Benny beat him up and left him for dead out in the cold, locked out of his Impala. And, even though Cas wasn't there to see it himself, he's pretty sure Dean wasn't this angry when he smashed Cas' Z16 with a tire iron.

Cas doesn't know what to do. His instincts want to drive him forward until he's comforting Dean, holding him and taking care of him until he's calm and collected. On the contrary, his head and his heart are protesting that idea, urging him to flee and protect himself before this gets out of control. He's not afraid of a fight, he can protect himself quite well, but he's very much afraid of doing or saying something he can't take back.

Cas' ultimate goal is to stay in a relationship with Dean, and opening his mouth or getting involved doesn't seem like it would help that goal very much. It's getting harder and harder to remain standing there, saying nothing, staying unseen.

“You don't think I know that? Who the fuck do you think raised Sam? You know this! _I_ raised Sam, _me_. I didn't have any help raising him, either. I didn't have a spouse or a job or even a fucking home, but you know what? I think I did pretty damn good. I raised a smart kid, he was a straight A student and got into Stanford! Have _you_ raised a child, Lisa? Do _you_ know how hard it is? Shit, raising a kid in an actual house with an actual income and two fucking parents sounds so ridiculously easy in comparison to what I had to do. I bet I could do it with my fucking eyes closed!”

More people have gathered now, but Dean and Lisa remain oblivious to them. Cas almost wants to smile with pride over the way Dean is standing up for himself. He's not bending or buckling under her cruel words, not going easy on her just because they were once in love and she's carrying his child.

Wow, Cas really doesn't like the way that sounded. Once in love. Carrying his child.

This isn't going to end well.

“Oh yeah?” Lisa challenges, stepping forward toward Dean once again, “if you did such a great job, where is he? Why did he leave and cut you out of his life, huh?”

Oh no.

Cas looks at Dean, worried that he's about to do something terrible. He can see Dean clenching his fist, and it almost looks like he's preparing to punch her lights out. Cas has to shake off the fear he's feeling so he can get to Dean and stop him from doing something really stupid. Not only is hitting a pregnant woman just plain wrong, but Dean would never forgive himself if he did.

Cas only makes it a couple steps before Dean's fist relaxes, his hands resting loosely on his hips. He looks absolutely torn to pieces. It makes Cas want to hurt Lisa himself, to take her down like he did to Benny all those months ago, because he can't believe she would actually say something like that to him. It was cruel and terrible and Cas has no idea how he's going to bring Dean back from all this.

“How could you say that?” Dean's voice is shaking, much like the rest of his trembling body. Cas can tell that he's fighting back tears, but losing the battle. “How could you say that to me?”

Lisa knows she fucked up, because now she's crying even harder. She's muttering apologizes and stepping back, giving Dean the space he needs to let her words finish sinking in. She's even shaking her head like she can't believe what she just said, either.

“I'm sorry, God, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean that, Dean, really.”

“No,” Dean says, stopping her apology short. “You're right.”

That catches Cas off guard. It breaks his heart to see Dean giving in now, accepting her horrible accusations and believing her poisonous lies. It's not fair, Dean was doing so well and enjoying his life, even moving past all the hurt and anguish he had over Sam and Ruby. Lisa just single-handedly stripped Dean of all that progress, of all the joy he's felt in the last few months. She dragged him back into that dark, hideous place with the cruelty and carelessness of her words.

Cas hates her for it.

“No, Dean, please. Don't say that. It was John's fault, okay? Everyone knows that. John's the one who -”

“Stop,” Dean commands, holding up his hand and cutting Lisa off again. “You were right to leave. I didn't raise a very smart kid, did I? I raised a heroin-addicted college drop out,” he says, bringing his hand to his heart like he can feel it splitting in two beneath his fingers.

“What?” Lisa gawks, obviously unaware that Dean traveled to California. Cas wants to rub it in her face that he's the one who went with Dean, that he's the one who was there for Dean through everything, not her, but he controls himself.

“You should probably keep that baby as far away from me as possible. I'll just end up ruining his life. Shit, with my track record he'll end up dead. Or she will,” he pauses, likely contemplating the gender of the unborn baby. He looks up at Lisa then, and asks, “Boy or girl? No, wait, maybe I don't want to know. Might make it harder when you're gone.”

Lisa knows how badly she messed up. It's written all over her face, the pain and self-loathing and regret for words that she can't take back. Her crying has lessened, but tears are still streaming down her anguished face. She doesn't bother wiping these ones away, knowing they'll just come back.

“I don't know the gender. I thought it would be fun to find out the day it's born. You know, there are so few real surprises left these days,” she laughs, but it's weak and imploring, a selfish attempt to lighten the mood.

“Well, I was pretty fucking surprised when you left,” Dean says, the bitter edge returning to his voice. It's a hopeful sign that he might not be completely stripped of his progress after all.

“Dean,” Lisa whispers, inching closer to close the gap between them, “I'm so sorry. I never wanted to hurt you. But I'm not leaving again, okay? I want us to be a family.”

Her words feel razor sharp as they cut through Cas' heart, shredding it like confetti. It's exactly what he was afraid to hear, what he didn't want to happen. God , he doesn't want to lose Dean, and not like this. Even if Dean doesn't love Lisa anymore, which he very well could, there's no way that the man he loves would actually walk away from his own child. He took care of John for years, took care of his brother, sacrificed everything for their happiness. That's the kind of man Dean is.

Cas tries his hardest to keep the tears at bay, but they come anyway. He's crying now, watching his beautiful boyfriend get dragged through an emotional obstacle course, helpless to stop it or make it better. He's going to lose Dean one way or another. Even if they don't break up, Cas doesn't think that Dean will ever be the same after this. He'll always feel guilty, he'll always question whether he's doing the right thing or not, and he'll always regret not giving his child the perfect, all-American family unit.

If Dean chooses to be with Lisa, then Cas will have to move. He'll have to beg his family to take him back, because he can't stay in Lawrence and watch Dean raise a family with Lisa. He just can't.

“Why now?” Dean asks, narrowing his focus. “What changed? You left because you didn't want a family with me, right? So what brought you back?”

“I heard your dad died...and then I saw the obituary online. I wanted to call, I know how much you loved your dad and I was afraid to come back too soon after you lost him. I just...I thought with him gone, we could have a real family, you know? A healthy one, without our baby having to grow up around all that. I know it hurts to hear, Dean, but you know it's true.”

Even if Dean doesn't, Cas certainly knows it's true. John was so far gone and such a wreck that no child should have to be around that. If John was still alive, and if he and Dean ever got to the point of having children together, Cas knows how he would feel. He wouldn't want his child around John, either.

Dean just nods, a breath catching in his throat as he works through whatever is going on in his mind. It's so hard not to reach out and hold him, not to run his fingers through Dean's hair just the way he likes it. But the more he and Lisa talk, the more Cas realizes that he has no place in this conversation. He might not even have a place in Dean's life anymore.

Cas imagines Dean in his Impala, driving somewhere with Lisa and their baby. Lisa goes through Dean's wallet and finds an old picture of him and Cas together. Dean pulls over, takes the picture out of his wallet and rips it up, tossing the little pieces out the window.

It's the worst thing Cas has ever felt, and the scenario hasn't even happened. Not yet, anyway.

“Do you have any idea how much I hated you? What you did to me was wrong. So fucking wrong. It was the worst thing you could have done, and you knew it. That's why you did it, right? Fuck. I can't even believe this,” Dean leans forward a tiny bit, bending a little at his waist like he's nauseated and about to throw up. He's taking deep breaths, closing his eyes and shaking his head. Maybe he really will vomit. Cas kind of feels like vomiting, too.

“I will never be able to apologize enough for what I did. I was scared out of my mind, but I should have trusted you. I can't undo it, I know that, but I can make it better. I can be better for you,” Lisa promises, taking advantage of Dean's state to step even closer. “Please.”

“I can't deal with this right now,” Dean snaps, standing up straight and turning on his heels, walking away.

“Wait!” Lisa cries out, following him, “our baby deserves that kind of life! Our baby is worth it, Dean!”

Dean stops, jerking his head back to look into Lisa's eyes. It's a deadly, savage look, one that startles her and sours her face. “Get away from me.”

Lisa says nothing, stalk still minus the little tremors shaking in her chest, her eyes woeful and watery as she stares back at Dean. He keeps his eyes trained on her until he knows she got the message loud and clear, then turns to leave again.

Cas is crying, but he knows he's got to step in now, at least to make sure Dean is okay. Cas is feeling unusually desperate, his knees are weak and his stomach is playing Twister, but he thinks he still might be able to do something. If he can get to Dean, if he could just talk to him for a minute, he might be able to convince him to press their chests together like the old days until they're both calm and in sync.

Cas needs that right now, badly. He's almost numb from the enormity of the situation, from the growing fear that he's going to lose Dean forever.

“Dean,” Cas finally says, jogging to catch up with him. Dean doesn't respond, he doesn't even acknowledge that Cas said anything. “Dean!”

Cas is close enough to actually touch him now, so he reaches out and lightly touches the back of Dean's hand. He jerks away like he's just been stung, throwing one of those hateful looks at Cas. “Not now,” Dean growled, getting his keys out of his pocket.

He doesn't know what it is, but Cas is feeling something he has never felt before. It hurts, worse than when his family ostracized him and sent him away to live in Lawrence. Worse than when Balthazar gave him the ultimatum. It hurts, but it also fills him with a deep sense of urgency, like everything is going to get sucked into a black hole unless he acts right now.

“Don't go,” Cas begs, standing as close to Dean as he dares, “or at least take me with you.”

Dean continues to ignore him, unlocking his car door and opening it. He's about to lower himself into the driver's seat, so Cas acts on impulse and reaches out again without thinking, gripping Dean's arm so tightly that it causes him to yell. “Fuck!” Dean spins around and shoves at Cas' chest, pushing him away. “Goddammit!”

Cas stumbles backward, almost falling over before he rights himself. Dean slams his car door closed, and then the Impala's engine roars to life. Cas watches as the love of his life drives away, his skin still tender from the thrust of Dean's palms against his chest.

He stands there, shaking, not knowing what to do.

This is it, isn't it? This is what Cas was afraid of. He should have known better than to fall in love with such a broken man. He can't believe what a foolish imbecile he is, how quickly and easily he let Dean slide into that open space in his heart.

“You,” Cas hears, along with the soft padding of bare feet on concrete getting closer, “this is your fault.”

Cas wants to laugh, but that part of his brain must be broken because he can't even figure out how to fake one. “Me? That's hilarious. Dean told me about you, but he never said you were such a comedian.”

“What did you do?” Lisa snaps, getting in his face, “Why did you turn him gay?”

“Turn him gay? He's _not_ gay, he's bisexual, and he has been his whole life. Maybe you just don't know him as well as you thought you did,” Cas says, but then regrets it. He should have let her think that Dean is gay.

“You stole him from me!” She screams, throwing her red high heels down on to the ground. She buries her face in her hands and starts bawling, her whole body shaking and wrenching with the force of her sobs.

There are so many things Cas could say in reply to that, but he chooses not to. It's just too ridiculous, so asinine that it's actually stupid. He can try all he wants, but he'll never be able to reason with a crazy person, and Lisa seems like she's off her rocker. Cas has too much to sort through in his mind anyway, too much to think about and try to straighten out. He doesn't have time to deal with this insufferable woman who screams ludicrous things at a man she doesn't even know.

Cas just wants to go home. He wants to curl up on his couch with a blanket, wine, and some chocolate. He wants to watch The Princess Bride and pretend like blonde, heroic men still exist.

“I'm sorry,” Lisa whimpers, and it surprises Cas. He doesn't know what she's apologizing for and he's honestly not in the mood to hear it.

She picks up her heels and wipes at her face. “It's these damn pregnancy hormones. I'm riding a hormone fueled roller coaster and I can't get off.”

He's not sure if he should say something back to her. She's being rather open, considering she's talking to the boyfriend of the man who fathered her child. Cas already has some difficulty in social situations, he was home schooled and rarely understands most of the interactions between average people, so now he's especially confused. Is it normal for pregnant women to carry on like this? Is it normal to speak so candidly to the man she just accused of stealing her...what do they call it...baby daddy?

“That sounds...unpleasant,” Cas finally replies, feeling more uncomfortable than he thought was possible.

“It is,” Lisa agrees. She's looking around the parking lot, but for what, Cas isn't sure. “I, uh...can I get a ride home?”

Well, this is an interesting turn of events.

He wants to tell her to find her own ride home, that she's a terrible human being with no sense of self awareness. He wants to tell her to leave Lawrence and never come back.

Instead, Cas sighs, trying to think about what Dean would want him to do. As angry as Dean is, he wouldn't want Lisa to have to walk home alone and barefoot. He wouldn't want his unborn baby at risk like that, subject to the elements or anyone who would do them harm. He motions toward his truck, thinking it was a good thing after all that he showed up to the date in his own vehicle.

“Come on,” Cas relents, his hand gentle on her back as he guides her over. He helps her up into the truck, because apparently being heavily pregnant means her balance is off and she's still shaking from the fight. Cas just hopes that her water doesn't break all over his seats. That would be gross.

As he settles in behind the steering wheel, waiting for Lisa to get her seat belt on, Cas feels a strange sense of peaceful calm wash over him. His heart is still rapidly beating, his extremities feel a tad tingly and there may or may not still be tears drying on his cheeks, but mentally he no longer feels like he's in a state of panic. He thinks he might actually get some sleep tonight and will enjoy the night off to himself.

Cas is probably in shock. He doesn't care.

Lisa instructs him where to go, which turns out to be one of the nicer hotels in the area. He wonders how long she rented the room for, and how long she plans on actually staying in Lawrence. Cas suspects that Lisa had planned to go home with Dean. She was probably expecting Dean to still be heartbroken and lovesick for her, eager to take her back and accept her and the baby without question. It would have happened, too, if Cas had never met him or fallen so deeply in love with him. Maybe that's what Lisa meant when she said Dean was stolen from her.

She fixes her face in the visor mirror, cleaning up the smeared mascara and blowing her nose with a tissue she found in the glove box. Cas watches her silently, analyzing her features and wondering what on Earth he's doing. She's beautiful, with high cheek bones and chocolate brown eyes, and he can't help but wonder how he's supposed to complete with that. Dean was with her for a long time, she was his first real love and less than a year ago he proposed to her.

Cas is so stupid. He should have never believed that Lisa was just inexplicably gone with no intention of returning to fuck everything up. He should have seen this coming.

“So you guys are, like, dating?” Lisa asks, flipping the visor back up and out of the way.

“Yeah,” Cas breathes, wondering if that's even still true, “we are 'like dating'.”

“Oh. I'm sorry.”

“Me too.”

Lisa opens the door and steps out of the truck without any help, adjusting her clothes and smoothing down the fabric before offering Cas a weak smile. He doesn't return it, he doesn't feel like smiling at her even though he's trying to be civil, so she closes the door quickly and heads inside to the hotel.

On his way home, Cas drives past Dean's house. The Impala is in the driveway, and Cas wonders if it would be a good idea to stop by and check on him. He wants to do more than that, he wants to go to Dean's house and hold him and talk to him and beg him not to take her back. He wants to convince Dean that he doesn't have to punish himself, that they can still be happy together and be a part of the baby's life. Basically, Cas wants to do the impossible.

After he parks his truck at home, he decides to walk over to Dean's despite his better judgment. He knows that Dean usually needs some time and space to think things over, but he doesn't want to give that to him right now. Cas has needs too, he has fears and doubts and insecurities just like any other human being, and the only person who can help him through this is Dean. He needs to hear Dean's voice telling him that it's okay, that he loves him, that it's not the end of the world.

But when he gets to Dean's door and knocks, Cas figures out pretty quickly that he's not going to get what he needs tonight. Dean doesn't answer the door or even get up from the couch, where he's laying with a bottle of vodka in his hands. Cas can see him through the front window, and he knows that Dean can hear him knocking, but he just lays there and takes a sip from the bottle.

Looks like Lisa also managed to strip away Dean's sobriety. He wouldn't be surprised if Dean started smoking again, too.

He twists the knob just to see if it's open, but it's locked. This is a perfect example of why it would have been nice to have a spare key to Dean's place, just in case an emergency happened or if Dean lost his.

Cas gives up, not wanting to make himself look any more foolish or desperate than he already does. It's not fair for a million reasons, but what Cas hates the most is how he'd always been there for Dean when he needed saving, but Dean won't even open the door for him. He's not even considering how Cas might be feeling right now, he doesn't care to see this from Cas' perspective and he won't even work up the courage to tell Cas to go away. Dean just lays there, self absorbed and acting like he's the only one with the right to be upset.

Whatever this is, it doesn't really feel like love.

Cas trudges home, kicking at rocks on the way, contemplating the benefits of getting completely wasted too. That's what everyone does when they're depressed, right? Must be a reason for that, for why people run to alcohol to solve their problems instead of talking things through or watching romantic comedies until their insides melt. Maybe Cas should start trying it out for himself.

He's really going to do it, too, until he gets home and realizes all he has is wine. He could probably get drunk on wine if he had enough of it, but he's only got the one bottle and he'd much rather enjoy it while watching a movie and eating a guilty pleasure food.

He pours himself a glass and looks around his kitchen for something sweet. He settles on a bag of mini marshmallows he bought a couple months ago to go with some hot chocolate. They're the colorful kind, his favorite. Cas pours them into a small bowl, grabs his favorite blanket, then settles on the couch to watch The Princess Bride.

It's kind of funny, because this is almost exactly how Cas got himself through his break up with Baz. He ate candy and drank wine and watched Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.

Halfway through the movie, Cas' phone has a seizure from the high volume of texts and calls that start coming in. Word spreads fast here, so the few people he's made friends with are probably trying to figure out what's going on. He gets texts from Bobby and Jo, and Ellen calls his phone about four times before she stops. Cas feels bad for ignoring them, he knows they're worried, but the person they should be contacting is Dean. Cas doesn't have much to do with the situation, he's not in control of anything and he doesn't have any answers. It feels like a dick move, too, especially since he's mad at Dean for doing the same thing, but the big difference is that Cas doesn't owe anything to anyone here.

Cas isn't the one with the crazy, pregnant ex. He's not the one who left Dean crying in the parking lot, or the one with the power to change or end their relationship as he knows it. He's not the one everyone should be calling because they were Dean's friends first. They're practically Dean's family and Cas doesn't know where he fits into that equation.

It would be nice to talk to someone, though. He misses Anna and Gabriel terribly, he misses Kansas City and his friends from the university. He even misses his mother.

Cas picks up his phone and clears away all the alerts, ignoring the missed calls and texts for now. He scrolls through his contacts, desperate to hear a familiar voice. He can't call his siblings, he definitely can't call his mother, and none of his friends from KU have spoken to him since he was outed and sent away. Cas is heartbroken and lonely, and just needs someone to tell him that it's okay, he matters.

And really, there's only one person left who might be willing to do that.

Balthazar answers on the fourth ring. “ _Cassie?_ ”

“Hello, Baz.”

There's a short pause, then, “ _Is everything alright?_ ”

Cas almost regrets calling him, but he selfishly enjoys that someone is asking him that question. “No. I'm watching a romance while eating junk and drinking a bottle of Pinot Grigio.”

Balthazar chuckles, “ _I remember when you would come over and make me watch your dreadful films after you had a bad day_ ,” he sighs, reminiscing, “ _what happened?_ ”

“My boyfriend got a woman pregnant.”

Balthazar coughs, then clears his throat. “ _The Dean fellow you told me about?_ ”

“Yes.”

“ _He got a woman pregnant?_ ”

“His ex girlfriend, yes.”

There's a muffled sound, like Baz is covering the phone with his hand and talking to someone. He's patient for a minute while this happens, until Baz moves his hand and says, “ _I'm coming to see you. You shouldn't be alone right now_.”

Cas wants to laugh, because he really wishes Dean was the one to say that. “I don't know if that's a good idea.”

“ _Don't be silly. I won't do anything to your Dean and I know your feelings for me are long gone. It sounds like you need a friend, and I know those are in short supply these days_ ,” he insists, not taking no for an answer.

Cas knows he should continue to decline Balthazar's offer. Him coming here might muddy things up, or he might not keep his promise and say something to Dean. It's true, his feelings for Baz have all but disappeared, he's not afraid of anything happening between them because he knows it won't, but Cas still has the awful feeling that Baz coming here will only make things worse.

And yet he finds himself not caring about that as much as he should. Cas doesn't want to be alone, he needs a friend to cheer him up, and Dean doesn't want to be the one to do it.

“Okay,” Cas agrees, popping a blue marshmallow in his mouth.

“ _Good. It will be a week or so before I can make it out there, is that alright? If you need me now, just say so_.”

“No, that should be fine. I will let you know in a few days if everything resolves itself. You might not need to come out at all.”

“ _Don't be ridiculous. I miss you, anyway. It's been too long_ ,” Baz complains, whining into the phone.

He's not sure why, but Cas starts feeling really unsure about his ex boyfriend visiting while he has problems with his current one. Even though he doesn't love Baz and it will probably be okay, he worries that Dean will get the wrong idea or take it as a sign that he should be with Lisa.

“ _I can't believe that bastard cheated on you_ ,” Baz continues, trying to fill the silence, “ _and with a woman, no less_.”

“He didn't cheat on me. It seems that he got her pregnant before they broke up, she left town and never told him about the pregnancy until tonight,” Cas explains, defending Dean's honor. Even though he's acting like a child, he doesn't want anyone to think of him as someone who would cheat.

“ _Wait, then how does he know the baby is his?_ ” Baz asks, suddenly skeptical. “ _She just shows up one day, pregnant, and says it's his baby? And no one questioned that?_ ”

“Dean seemed to think it was entirely plausible. He never asked her for proof.”

“ _Someone ought to. Maybe you should discuss it with him_.”

Cas thinks about that for a minute. It's true, neither of them really challenged her claim. Perhaps Dean should request a paternity test to determine who the real father is before he lets this take over his life. If he's not the father, then he and Cas can continue down the path they were on, staying together. Maybe one day, they might actually move in together and have a family of their own.

But the downside to mentioning this to Dean is the negative way he's likely to react. Telling him that the baby might not be his would only sound petty and selfish, like Cas is trying to manipulate him or paint Lisa like a whore. Dean might not even want to consider that Lisa not only left him without saying goodbye, but that she had also been sleeping with someone else. Or, she could have just left Dean for her own reasons and found herself impregnated after a sloppy one night stand. Either way, it's claiming that Lisa is a liar and Dean might not take it too well.

“I don't know if that's a good idea, Baz. I don't think he'd take me very seriously,” Cas sighs, staring at the paused screen of his movie. Buttercup and Westley are rolling down the hill, and their precarious positions are quite hilarious. He doesn't care what anyone says, these movies are definitely the best way to cheer up.

“ _Then perhaps you should consider trying to find the evidence yourself. That way you can show your Dean the truth and he won't be able to deny it_ ,” he suggests, and it's not a bad idea. Cas just has no idea how he would go about finding that kind of evidence, and if it crosses a social boundary that gets him too involved in someone else's business.

Lisa made this his business, so she and everyone else can suck it.

“I might just do that. Any suggestions?”

“ _Well, where has she been all this time? I'd start there_.”

That's a good question, another one that Dean didn't ask Lisa during their fight. He thanks Balthazar for the help, and for being kind enough to offer his company if things don't return to normal. It's been a while since he's talked to someone that isn't Dean or part of Dean's life.

Cas finishes the movie, the bowl of marshmallows, and the entire bottle of wine. He's not drunk, he sipped on the wine slowly during the course of the movie, and it takes a lot more than that to get him inebriated. He is a little buzzed though, just barely, enough that it's calming him down and making him feel relaxed.

Even if Dean won't open the door for him, Cas knows there are other ways they can communicate. He grabs a pen and a piece of paper and writes out a quick love note, hoping that Dean will see it in the morning after he's rested and feeling better. If nothing else, Dean will have had the night to sort out his thoughts, and might be up for a conversation tomorrow.

**Dean,**

**I'm sorry that our date turned into something neither of us expected, and I'm sorry that the stars have written this into our lives. Don't forget that I am here for you, and that I love you very much.**

**\--Cas**

**P.S. - I'm still waiting to see what my present is.**

**P.P.S. - I like kids.**

Cas drops the note in Dean's mailbox, then goes back home and curls up in his big, empty feeling bed. It's been a while since he's had to sleep alone, so he holds a pillow in his arms and turns down the air conditioning to keep it nice and warm. He still has trouble falling asleep, thinking about Lisa and whether or not that unborn baby is actually Dean's. Cas' heart still aches, but the thought of seeing Dean tomorrow and talking things out with him helps to smooth the sharper edges of the pain.

What Cas doesn't know is that it's nearly two weeks before Dean speaks to him again.  


	20. Chapter 20

When Dean finally comes around, it’s a slow, almost surreal process.

As he wakes, the lucidity of his dream slowly bleeds into consciousness, caught between the soft comfort of Cas’ arms and the hard, lumpy couch he must have fallen asleep on. He clings to Cas, trying desperately to hold on as he’s pulled higher and higher toward the surface of cognizance. The couch’s presence beneath him solidifies and becomes real as Cas’ form obscures into nothingness.

Dean wakes but keeps his eyes closed, relying on his other senses to establish his surroundings. He’s face down on the couch, but the couch doesn’t belong to him. This couch feels older, lumpier, and it itches against his skin. His neck and back are terribly sore from laying in the same position for too long, and as he gains more awareness of himself and where he could possibly be, other crucial clues begin settling into place. There’s a dull throbbing behind his eyes, his stomach feels warped into a new and interesting shape, unsettled and queasy. Even his skin feels wrong, stretched and pulled a little too tight over his body as if someone were trying to overinflate him with an air pump. His mouth is dry and pasty, and it feels like his lungs have been scraped clean of air and replaced with fire.

Dean’s first conscious breath is a painful one. He winces at the sharp, burning influx, wondering what the Hell he could have possibly done to himself to cause that kind of unfamiliar sensation. He coughs, but it’s dry and unproductive. He focuses instead of the persistent itch crawling on his skin from the couch he’s lying on, and then it hits him that he has fewer clothes on than he initially suspected. Usually, when Dean falls asleep on someone else’s couch, it’s in his jeans and jacket and people rarely try to remedy that. But he’s far too comfortable to be fully clothed, noting the distinct absence of a belt digging in to his waist, a restrictive and too-warm jacket, or the weight of two heavy boots laced around his feet. He doesn’t remember how he got here, wherever he is, but whoever else was with him must have taken off his outermost layers of clothing. He’s still in his boxers and t-shirt, there are socks on his feet, and a light blanket is draped over the lower half of his body.

He opens his eyes, slowly and carefully, afraid to be blinded by the bright lights of day. Dean notices fairly quickly that there was no need to be hesitant, because it’s dark and he can barely make out the details of whatever room surrounds him. He can hear the very faint snoring of someone else, a snoring that’s unfamiliar and almost feminine. Dean worries for a moment that he might have gone home with some strange female, but that fear is dispelled as soon as his eyes adjust to dark.

The employee break room at the Roadhouse is smaller than the one at Bobby’s garage, mostly because the only time it’s ever used is when a drunk customer needs somewhere to sleep off all the alcohol they’ve consumed. Dean has never slept in here before, though he’s been back here once or twice on the slow days when he actually had time for a break. It’s just an open room with a single couch, a coffee table and a fridge over in the corner. There’s a small television, too, an older one with rabbit ears that doesn’t work anymore, but it sits against the wall anyway because no one has ever had to inclination to remove it.

The secondary snoring persists, and now that Dean is aware of his surroundings, he figures he had better see who crashed in here with him. He needs to put all the pieces together so he can try to remember what happened the night before, but lately he hasn’t had much luck with that. The entire last two weeks have been one long blur of whiskey and vodka, a colorful whirlwind of bars and taxis and vomit. He’s been waking up in the strangest places, too. Once he woke up on a park bench, another day he woke up in the back of his Baby, and yesterday morning he found himself out in the middle of the woods, face down in a pile of leaves and dirt and ants.

Dean sits up, achingly slow, trying to avoid the inevitable nausea that accompanies his consciousness these days. He feels the liquid in his gut begin to swirl, the first phase of his new morning routine, but he manages to settle it with a few deep breaths and pure willpower. He hates throwing up anywhere that’s not outside or in his own home, and since he’s currently in the break room at the Roadhouse, the nearest bathrooms are down the hall and he doesn’t want to risk making a mess all over the place.

He rises to his feet and looks around, but can’t find his clothes. There’s nothing in here but himself and the other person, who is wrapped up in a bundle of blankets on the floor with a pillow. Dean steps closer, trying to be as quiet as he can, and finds Jo’s familiar face poking out of the blanket nest she’s made for herself. She’s still asleep and fully dressed, which is both a good and bad sign. He knows better than to suspect they slept together, but her being fully dressed could mean that she had intended to stay awake all night, or that she’s prepared to wake up and chase Dean down on a moment’s notice.

All the more reason to stay quiet.

Dean tiptoes toward the door, the carpet padding his steps and keeping his movement a secret, but the door is a bit of a bastard when it squeaks and whines as he pushes it open. Jo twitches but stays soundly asleep, tugging the blanket tighter around her shoulders. Dean breathes a sigh of relief and continues through the door, closing it softly behind him.

The linoleum in the hallway is cool on his toes as he makes his way into the bathroom. He relieves himself, still refraining from throwing up even though the urge hits him more than once, then he scrubs his hands and face in the sink nearest to the stall he used. Dean has had to clean himself using only public restrooms plenty of times, including makeshift showers using only antibacterial hand soap and paper towels, so he manages to clean himself up pretty good with just some hot water. He stares for a moment at his reflection, taking in his ragged appearance with a sense of accomplishment. He has successfully avoided having to deal with the eventual fallout of his life for an entire fortnight. Score one for Dean.

But as he leaves the bathroom, someone grabs his wrist and jerks him into the main bar, then promptly slaps a pair of handcuffs on him. Dean’s brain is still slow and muddied from marinating in alcohol, so he doesn’t have the presence of mind to stop it or jerk away. Like a ragdoll, he’s limp and helpless as the person restrains him and then cuffs him to the long metal rod that lines the bar. His right hand is trapped now, fettered and at the mercy of whoever has him trapped here. Fuck. 

“Sit your ass down, boy,” Ellen commands, pointing to the barstool beside him. Dean does as he’s told, his head still throbbing like the beating of a drum, his stomach churning. As soon as Ellen is pleased with his obedience, she continues. “You’re not leavin’ until we have a little chit-chat, you hear?”

Dean nods, which seems like a redundant and unnecessary task. He’s handcuffed to the bar, so it’s not like he can leave or say no. Still, Ellen appreciates his cooperation. She goes behind the bar and pours Dean a tall glass of ice water, setting it next to him, then grabs a bag of tortilla chips and pours it into a bowl for him as well. “I know it’s not exactly a hangover cure, but it’s all I got here and you need something in your stomach besides poison. Eat.”

It’s not a request. Nothing that comes out of Ellen’s mouth is ever is. Dean is scowling, but he knows it’s doing him no good. He takes a chip and pops it in his mouth, crunching on it slowly and reluctantly, afraid to swallow. He really doesn’t want to throw up, and he’s done a decent job of avoiding it so far, but there’s not much he can do if he’s actually got something in his stomach to puke.

“I’m gettin’ real tired of havin’ to do this, Dean. You’re a grown ass man and you should know better. You ain’t your daddy and you sure the Hell ain’t your brother, so tell me what’s goin’ on before I do to you what I should have done to them.”

Dean’s not exactly sure what she means by that, but he’s afraid of it nonetheless. Ellen’s a powerful woman with a mean right hook, and the rings adorning her fingers won’t feel pleasant when they collide with his face. Of course, she could always mean something worse than physical violence. He’s just not used to punishments that don’t involve fists.  

He’s not sure what he’s supposed to say, either. Everyone knows that Lisa is back and pregnant with his child. There’s not much more he can say on that subject, and anyone with a scrap of common sense would know why he’s affected by that. Dean’s pretty sure that’s not what Ellen is asking for, though.

“You already know what’s wrong,” Dean finally answers, his throat scratchy and raw. He can taste the familiar layer of smoke on the back of his tongue, it’s just been a while since he’s felt it and now he needs to readjust. 

“You know damn well what I’m askin’ you.”

He doesn’t, actually, but he has his suspicions. She could be asking to hear all about Dean’s thoughts and feelings, which isn’t something he wants to do right now or ever, or she could be asking about the binge drinking, or maybe even what he plans on doing about Lisa and the baby. Dean picks the easiest one, the drinking, because he’s a coward and a fool and isn’t willing to face the rest.

Dean sips on the water, and it soothes the smoky burn in his mouth. “I deal with my shit in my way, Ellen. What do you want from me?”

“Castiel says he hasn’t seen you in nearly two weeks, you haven’t been goin’ to work, and you’re a damn mess. I am sick and tired of havin’ to intervene every time you throw yourself a pity party. We’re already three Winchesters short and I’ll be damned if I let it turn into four,” Ellen says, sitting in the barstool next to Dean.

Dean wants to defend himself against Ellen’s accusations, but they both know her words are completely true and he’s not interested in wasting the breath it would take to deny them. The handcuff is snug against his skin, almost to point of chaffing him, and the sooner he gives Ellen what she wants, the sooner Dean can leave.

He just genuinely doesn’t know what to say, or what she wants to hear.

“You’ll have to be specific. I’ve lost a lot of brain cells this week and my head hurts too much to try and read between the lines,” Dean retorts.

Ellen rolls her eyes. “Fine. How ‘bout we start with Castiel?”

“What about him?” Dean snaps, turning his head away and pulling on the cuffs. He doesn’t want to talk about Cas or think about Cas or do anything that involves having to face Cas. It’s no one’s fucking business anyway, and for the life of him he will never understand why anyone gives a shit. It’s in the middle of the night, yet here Ellen is, awake and forcing Dean to talk. She’s wasting her time for no good reason and Dean’s patience is already starting to wear thin.

“Why haven’t you seen or talked to him?”

 _Because he’s just going to break up with me_ , Dean thinks. There’s no way that Cas still wants to be with him after what happened outside the bar with Lisa, not after Dean lost control of himself and shoved Cas away. He’s smart, and good, and all the things that Dean will never be, so he knows better than to stay in a relationship with someone that has as much baggage and drama as Dean does.

Plus, there’s no excuse for what Dean did to him. He shoved Cas away, watched him almost fall back from the force, then drove off and left him alone to deal with Lisa. Cas even came by the house later, probably to break things off immediately, and Dean was too chicken-shit to get up and face the consequences like a man. He doesn’t want to lose Cas, and even though Dean is pretty certain that things are over between them, he can still pretend like things are okay as long as he doesn’t see Cas and hear the actual words.

Ellen is a smart, intuitive woman. She probably knows all of that already. He uses that to his advantage so he can say as little as possible.

“Don’t want to talk to him or see him, obviously,” Dean says, miffed, knowing it’s only half true. He would give anything to see Cas right now, he misses him terribly and wants the chance to apologize and beg for forgiveness, but he knows better than to believe in fairy tales with happy endings. There are repercussions in the real world.

Ellen doesn’t like that answer. She narrows her gaze and lifts a single eyebrow, though Dean can’t tell if it’s an unspoken question or a challenge or both. Probably both, knowing Ellen, and considering Dean’s current disadvantage, he tries to change his answer to something she might accept.

“Just not ready to talk to him yet, okay?” Dean mumbles, taking another sip of water.

“He deserves better than what you’ve been doin’ to him. This ain’t right and you know it,” she preaches, maintaining her steady gaze. She shifts her legs and rests her elbow on the bar. “You talk to Lisa yet?”

Dean grimaces at the sound of her name. Hearing it spoken out loud makes his insides flip and twist, and he’s already nauseated enough as it is. “Yeah. Told her I needed some time to think.”

“And just how much more time do you need before you’re ready to talk to the both of them? Two weeks ain’t enough?”

Dean doesn’t like the direction this conversation is headed. He sure as hell isn’t going to be pressured into talking to anyone he doesn’t want to, especially Lisa or Cas. He already knows what Cas is going to say – well, not exactly, but he knows that Cas will try to break up with him in a polite, gentle manner. He knows what Lisa is going to say, too, because she pretty much already said it that night she showed up. She said it again the one time they talked afterward, when they exchanged contact information at Bobby’s insistence.

Apparently Lisa came back to Lawrence almost empty handed and couldn’t afford more than a few days at the hotel. Bobby and Jody gave her their spare bedroom, saying something about not wanting their grandson born on the streets. Dean isn’t sure what pissed him off more, the fact that Bobby is housing the woman who ruined his life, or the fact that Dean isn’t the one making sure his own baby safe.

Just goes to show how right Lisa was. Dean’s an unfit parent and she should have just stayed gone.

“Not like I’ve been through this before, Ellen. Sorry my anguish isn’t on a convenient schedule for you,” Dean fumes.

“Anguish?” Ellen repeats, and Dean knows he fucked up. Ellen could probably gain more insight into Dean’s brain with that single word than anyone else could, and to her it probably speaks volumes.

Dean doesn’t acknowledge her questioning eyes as she rolls the word around in her head. After a minute, she lets it go and moves on. “When you getting your lazy ass back to work?”

This is another question he’s been trying to avoid, because the truth is that Dean doesn’t want to keep working at the Roadhouse. The tips are great and he likes working with Jo, but if he’s having a baby it’s probably best not working at a bar. He needs to set a good example for the kid and that means no more alcohol, because the last thing Dean wants is to become John. It’s not the baby’s fault that he got stuck with an asshole for a dad. Or she. Whatever.

“I can’t work at the bar anymore,” Dean explains, dodging Ellen’s look of surprise. “Gotta be better for the baby, you know? Shouldn’t be around alcohol.”

He’s not sure how to describe the look on Ellen’s face, but he thinks it’s a combination of annoyance and pride. She raised her own daughter in a bar and Jo turned out pretty good, not to mention Dean has been consistently drunk for an entire two weeks, but he thinks that she’s proud of his choice to try and be better regardless of the way he’s trying to do it. It’s more than John ever did or said, anyway, and Winchesters aren't exactly known for stepping up to the plate when times get rough.

“I think that’s a good idea,” Ellen relents, softening her voice. “You’re tryin’ to do right by your baby. I respect that.”

“Thanks,” Dean murmurs, grabbing another chip. The tortilla chips are actually helping his nausea quite a bit, and this is the most human he’s felt since Lisa showed up and dropped an atomic bomb on his life.

“So when are you cuttin’ this shit? Baby’s comin’ soon and quittin’ the bar won’t do you any good if you’re still on a bender when it comes poppin’ out.”

Dean really doesn’t have an answer for that. He knows he can’t keep doing this forever, or even for much longer if he wants to stay alive, but he just can’t cope with everything when he’s sober. He feels like his heart has been slashed to bloody ribbons, like his soul seeped out of his ears and blew away with the wind. He just wants Cas more than anything, but after what Dean did to him and with a baby on the way, it’s not going to work out. He and Cas never even discussed if they wanted kids, and he could never ask Cas to accept his and Lisa’s baby as his own. That fantasy is best left to his dreams, where he can safely imagine Lisa dropping off the baby for the weekend, Cas cradling it in his arms and kissing its little bald head. Even if Cas were actually willing to do that, Dean already fucked things up by shoving him away and he’s pretty sure Lisa doesn’t want to settle for split custody.

He’s got another six weeks before the baby comes, so he was kind of hoping he could just stay drunk until nothing hurts anymore. Dean doubts he will ever really get over Cas, but at least the whiskey helps him get through each day without wanting to jump off the nearest bridge.

“I don’t know,” Dean answers honestly, trying not to sound as hopeless as he feels.

Ellen thinks about that for a moment before saying, “What do you remember about last night?”

He closes his eyes and tries to focus on the little blips of memory he has, but Dean doesn’t remember anything substantial. He knows he bought a bottle of vodka, parked his Baby in the Singer Salvage parking lot, and started drinking. How Dean ended up from there to here is a mystery.

“Nothing,” he says, shrugging his shoulders. He doesn’t really care, anyway.

Ellen gets up from the bar stool and goes back behind the counter, pouring herself a soda. “Well, all I know is that Benny dragged your ass in here ‘round midnight, sayin’ he found you on the ground outside the Bayou. Apparently you kept trying to order the boudin bowl. By the time he got you here you wouldn’t stop singing Be My Baby, and let me tell you right now, you cannot sing when you’re drunk.”

Dean lets the information sink in, somewhat repelled by the idea that Benny had touched him at all, even if it was to drag him somewhere safe for the night. His heart aches at the thought of singing that song, knowing the last time he heard it was when he and Cas were on their way to Stanford. It kind of pisses him off, too, because the whole point of getting drunk is so that he doesn’t have to be reminded of how much he’s in love with someone he can’t have, not so he can freely sing the songs that remind him of Cas.

“Ah,” Dean acknowledges, not willing to say anything else. He wishes Benny would have just left him there. Waking up outside on the ground sounds a lot better than waking up here, being handcuffed to the bar and forced to talk about things he’d rather pretend weren’t happening.

“Tell you what, Dean. I’ll cut you loose if you can promise me that you’ll go straight to Cas’ house. You two need to work your shit out.”

Dean glances out the window, double checking to make sure it’s still dark and still in the middle of the night. “What time is it?”

“Four, maybe closer to five in the morning. Sun should be coming up soon. Doesn’t matter though, you got that? You knock hard enough, Cas will wake up and answer the door.”

Even if he does manage to wake up Cas, Dean is certain that Cas will just turn him away or break up with him immediately. Fuck, he doesn’t want to do this. He just wants to go home and crawl under the covers, never to resurface. He wants to drink and smoke until reality is so blurred that even his deepest pain feels like pleasure.

“I don’t think so,” he replies, scratching at the skin on his wrist. “Not tonight.”

“I ain’t taking the cuffs off until you do,” Ellen deadpans, not breaking her gaze.

“I’m gunna have to shit eventually,” Dean retorts, the scowl returning to his face.

“Son, I’ve cleaned up worse things than shit off this floor, and I sure as fuck ain’t afraid to leave you chained to this bar until you realize that. You hearin’ me, boy?”

Well, fuck. Dean knows Ellen isn’t kidding and he’s not going to win this standoff. And why the Hell does she care, anyway? Why is it so important to her that he meets up with Cas just so he can break things off? Dean achieves the same outcome with drinking and avoidance but without having to actually see Cas face to face. He’s not sure he can even handle that, he’s not sure he can be broken up with and survive it. He was so thoroughly fucked after Lisa left, but what he had with Cas was a million times greater and deeper than anything he ever felt for her. Dean could still work and function after she took off without a word, but just the idea of Cas ending their relationship has sent him into a self-destructive downward spiral. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think Ellen was trying to get him to take that final step off the edge of the cliff.

But, it’s either that or stay handcuffed to the bar. On one hand, he’d much rather die a slow and painful death inside the Roadhouse than have to face Cas, but if Ellen releases him then he’s free to drink some more. Slowly dying and sobriety are two very different methods of torture, and right now he’s pretty sure he’d rather die.

“Fine,” Dean relents, lifting his cuffed hand. “I’ll go.”

Ellen pulls the key out of her pocket. “I’ll be calling Cas in a couple of hours. If I find out you never showed up, you better pray to God for mercy, ‘cause when I find you – and I _will_ find you – Lord knows you won’t be getting’ any mercy from me.”

Another perfect example for why Ellen is the scariest woman on Earth. She’ll do it, too, whatever the punishment is she’s planning. He doesn’t even want to think about what that could be.

Ellen steps forward, pausing just before she unlocks the cuff. She takes advantage of Dean’s inability to move one last time, pulling him into her arms for a tight, motherly hug. She holds him for a long time, rocking gently in tiny, barely noticeable movements. Her hand strokes soothing lines up and down his back, and though he knows it’s supposed to be comforting him, it only makes him feel worse. The whole concept is unnatural to him, it’s not a familiar sense he’s ever developed because he never had a mother to do this for him. He likes Ellen just fine, but Dean is used to keeping a very safe distance between himself and mother figures. There’s a reason he doesn’t have one, and the consequence for that reason was not getting warm, reassuring hugs from a mother that loves him.

His skin starts to crawl under the contact, and Ellen must notice his discomfort because she finally breaks away, giving him a last small pat on the back. She un-cuffs him, then grabs his clothes from behind the bar and slides them over.

Dean dresses quickly, afraid there’s going to be another ambush before he can make it outside. Ellen might be finished with him, but Jo’s a vengeful rascal and probably has a vendetta planned since she had to sleep on the floor. Fortunately, he’s able to tug on all his clothes and give Ellen a wave goodbye before anything else happens. It’s a small, almost pointless victory, but he’s glad to have it.

It’s cold as Hell outside, much colder than it should be for June, so Dean finds himself wishing he could be drunk enough not to feel it. It’s probably the wind’s fault, the annoying jerk that it is, blowing about like it has every right to do so and making it too fucking cold to walk as far as he has to.

Which reminds him, he needs to find his Baby and get his keys. God, he hopes no one stole or vandalized her. That’s the last thing he needs right now.

Ellen said she would give him a couple of hours to make to Cas’ place, but Dean still wonders if he has enough time to stop at home first and clean up. He hasn’t been home since that first night, hasn’t checked his mail or turned off the lights or done anything that responsible adults are supposed to do. He needs a shower more than anything, it’s been too long since he’s had one and he probably smells like burning refuse. It’s a wonder that Ellen was able to hold him as close as she did without gagging.

He’d like to change his clothes, too, since he’s been wearing the same thing for two weeks. It’s actually kind of disgusting how little Dean has maintained himself, and it’s a shame that it took him this long for that thought to even cross his mind. There’s no way he can go to Cas’ house when he’s this gross. Being broken up with is one thing, but he doesn’t want embarrassment to accompany the deep sense of loss he’s going to feel when Cas finally turns him away for good.

As sick as he feels, Dean knows it’s going to take him a while to walk home, so he picks his pace up to a steady jog. He wants to have time for a shower and shave before Ellen hunts him down and strings him up by his feet, and jogging will get him home nearly twice as fast. He clears his mind of everything, doesn’t allow himself to think or feel or ponder, focusing only on his boots as they hit the ground, one foot in front of the other.

When he makes it home about thirty minutes later, Dean is completely exhausted and gasping for breath. He didn’t let himself stop, even when he was sure he was going to pass out from lack of oxygen. He’s been trashing his lungs with near-constant smoking, so the few miles that would have normally not been issue became a horrendous hurdle, and being the glutton for punishment that he is, he decided not to stop.

Once Dean was able to breathe again without a struggle, he opened his mailbox and grabbed the wad of papers and envelopes out, not bothering to check them right now. He goes inside and drops the papers on his dining table, then heads to his bathroom, stripping his clothes off along the way.

Dean vomits in the shower. He’s angry that he threw up at all, but he does feel much better afterward and at least he vomited somewhere he wouldn't have to actually clean up. The water carries it down the drain, taking the evidence of Dean’s binge drinking down with it. He scrubs his body as thoroughly as he can, making the shower relatively quick because he’s still afraid of Ellen’s vague yet intensely terrifying threats.

Miraculously, Dean manages not to nick himself shaving. The mountain man look was starting to grow on him, more literally than figuratively, but now that the facial hair is gone he’s starting to feel more like himself. He wonders if this is what his dad went through when he lost Mary, if he made excuses for his drinking because he simply couldn't cope with sobriety. Everyone knows that John drank because she died, that he couldn't handle the pain of her loss, but it seems like Dean has never understood his father as well as he has since his death.

Now Dean understands the difference between seeing someone suffer and actually feeling their suffering. It makes him wish he had tried to help his father in different ways, instead of just physically helping him when he was unable to do something for himself. Dean kept himself closed off from him own father, despite all he did to help the man, because he was afraid of opening himself up to someone who couldn’t reciprocate. He sees now how wrong he was, that shutting his father out in that way probably only served to make it worse. Maybe all John needed was for one person to be human with him. Open, loving, not judgmental. Maybe it would have helped him see his own humanity again.

Maybe that’s what Ellen meant, too. She said she would do to Dean what she should have done to both John and Sam, and then she hugged him the way a mother hugs their own child. She opened herself up to him and reminded him that he’s still human.

It wasn't a particularly powerful moment, it was just kind of strange and annoying, but he knows if Ellen started doing that more often, it would eventually feel normal and he would learn to want them, to feel comforted by them. He’d feel whole and loved and normal. It’s kind of what Cas helped him realize, but in a different way. It wasn’t sexual or needy or forced, it was just an act of compassion from one person to another.

If his dad were still alive, Dean would pull him into a hug and not let go for a long time.

Cleaned up and in some new clothes, Dean makes his way back into the kitchen to put his shoes and jacket on. He sees the pile of mail and decides to skim through it for anything that might be important. It’s mostly bills and advertisements, things he couldn’t care less about right now, but then he sees several smaller scraps of paper that have been folded and were stuck to the bottom of the pile.

They’re love notes, of course. Not that he suspected small scraps of paper in his mailbox could be anything else, he just wasn’t expecting there to be any. It scares him that Cas could have even broken up with him through a love note, which might actually hurt worse than hearing it face to face. Dean prepares himself for the worst, then reads through the notes quickly, his heart thudding up into his throat.

They’re not at all what Dean convinced himself they would be. They’re real love notes, each one telling Dean how much he’s loved and how much Cas wants to speak with him. One of them assures Dean that Cas isn’t mad, to please call him or just let him know he’s okay. Another is a simple note in which Cas reflects on their first date. Dean thinks he’s found the first one Cas left, because Cas apologizes for the way their date ended and goes so far as to say he likes kids.

Cas likes kids.

It’s not a revolutionary statement, but it implies so much more than Dean ever thought would be possible. Cas said it after Lisa showed up, after he knew that Dean would be having a baby with someone else. He didn’t tell Dean to fuck off or to have fun raising his kid with someone else. He didn’t gently let Dean down or insult Lisa or do any of the things he was certain Cas would do. Instead Cas made a point to tell Dean that he’s okay with children, that it’s not the end of the world, that he might even be willing to be a part of the baby’s life.

But Dean has been plastered for a couple weeks, and there are only five notes total. Each time he dropped off another note, he must have seen that his previous notes were still there. Dean can’t know for sure which days Cas came by to leave a note in his mailbox, but he guesses that it was probably the first five days of Dean’s extended bender. That means Cas would have stopped leaving notes about nine days ago, which is plenty of time to change his mind, especially taking Dean’s behavior into consideration.

Fuck. Of course he would manage to screw this up. If he had gone home even once in that first week, he could have seen these notes and stopped his nonsense much earlier. He could have talked to Cas right away, unafraid that Cas hated him or planned on breaking his heart.

Dean wonders if he still has a chance, if Cas might actually still be willing to be with Dean and be a part of his child’s life. Cas had given him such a wide window of opportunity to see the notes, not to mention the fact that he stopped by Dean’s house that night, probably to explain that he wasn’t upset and that he still loved him. Shit, that means even after Dean ignored him and didn’t answer the door, Cas was still leaving him encouraging love notes. God-fucking-dammit. Dean has got to be the world’s biggest asshole.

Hope flutters in his chest like hummingbird trying to escape its cage, batting against the walls of his ribs and hopping along the bottom of his stomach. Dean tries to keep it under control, he knows what a painful bastard hope can be and he doesn’t want to make the possible break up any worse. Knowing his heart will be broken is a lot different than thinking there’s a chance he could still be happy, and as much as he wants to cling to that hope and live in it forever, Dean knows he has to face Cas and deal with whatever happens.

He shoves the notes in his pocket, but just as he’s about to leave, Dean remembers the key he had made for Cas. He has no idea how their conversation will go, but Dean can’t completely silence the chirping hummingbird still flitting around inside him, circling his heart in search of a place to perch. After reading the notes, Dean thinks there might be a real possibility that their conversation could end well, that he could still give Cas the gift he wanted to give him on their ruined date. He darts back into his bedroom, pulls open his sock drawer, and grabs the little box.

The sun is rising now, but it’s still colder than Dean would like it to be. He locks his door and starts walking down the street toward Cas’ house, practicing all the apologies he wants to make over and over in his head. He wonders how long it will take Cas to hear him knocking, but then again Cas likes to wake up early, so he might even be up and drinking a mug of coffee. He doesn’t know why, but that thought excites him. He’d rather talk to a caffeinated Cas than a tired Cas, he supposes, but right now he’ll take whatever kind of Cas that is willing to answer the door. Excitement starts to build the closer he gets, knowing he’ll get to stare into those delphinium blue eyes once again.

Except, the closer Dean gets, the clearer the car parked in Cas’ driveway becomes. It’s strange because Dean doesn’t recognize it, it’s not Cas’ car or truck, and despair starts burning its way through his veins. It could be anyone, though, even just a friend or a family member, but he can’t stop thinking about the possibility that Cas had someone over and slept with them. The more Dean thinks about it, the more probable that scenario becomes. He doesn’t know what would be worse – seeing Cas with another man, or enduring Ellen’s punishment, whatever it is.

He doesn’t stop walking, despite how much he wants to just turn around and go back home. Only minutes ago, Dean was filled with a brightly colored hope that made the world seem less dull, but now he remembers why it’s a bad idea to let that particular bird chirp at all. It only makes the pain of rejection worse, the pain of reality and disappointment sink further into his core than if he’d been better prepared.

And yet, Dean still finds himself hoping. That damn bird is relentless, insisting that the car is probably just a friend’s. He knows that Cas’ family isn’t speaking to him, but what if Cas’ missing brother suddenly returned and paid him a visit? It’s possible, and apparently even the smallest sliver of opportunity is enough to keep the bird in his chest aflutter and singing.

But when he makes it to Cas’ door, he can see through the front window into his dining room. Cas is awake, and God he’s beautiful. His hair is mussed from sleep in the way Dean has grown to love, his long and slender fingers are wrapped around his KU mug, and his eyes are wide and staring off into nothing. Dean knows that look, it’s the face Cas makes whenever he’s lost in thought, worrying about things he has no control over. Dean wonders if he’s responsible for that look, if Cas is thinking about him and worrying, if he misses Dean as much as Dean misses him.

He raises his fist to knock, his heart thundering loud and persistent with dread and anticipation and concern, but he stops short. Dean’s hand idles weirdly in the air as he watches another man enter the dining room, his hair equally mussed with Cas’ robe draped over his shoulders. He pours himself a cup of coffee and sits beside Cas, resting a hand on his shoulder.

There’s nothing sexual about it, he could still be the brother that Cas had mentioned before, but something about the scene he’s watching rips his confidence into ragged little pieces.

The truth is that it doesn’t matter who the guy is. It could be a brother or even a new lover, and it would still be Dean’s fault. Cas had tried to contact Dean, had tried to tell him that he loved him and wanted to talk things through, but Dean pushed him and everyone else away in his selfish attempt at numbing the pain. He remembers what Lisa had said about Dean not being good enough, about leaving Lawrence because she knew Dean would never be a worthy father. This is the evidence, this is all Dean needed to see to understand just how right Lisa was.

Dean can’t seem to take care of anyone. He can barely take care of himself as it is. Lisa is staying at Bobby’s because Dean is too much of a selfish prick to take care of her himself, to make sure his own child is safe and housed and healthy. He couldn’t take care of Cas, and fuck, Cas was probably just as scared and worried as Dean was when Lisa showed up. Whoever this guy is, he’s there because Dean wasn’t, because Dean will never be as good as people want him to be. He’s no better than John or Sam, running from his problems and leaving other people to clean up the mess he left behind.

It’s when Cas starts to cry that Dean really feels it, like some kind of razor sharp pendulum swinging back and forth inside him, slicing him up and turning his insides into a thick, frothy mixture of shame and guilt and sorrow. He knows those tears falling from Cas’ eyes are because of Dean, each drop a spot of blood of Dean’s hands.

He can’t do this. He’d rather let Ellen beat him into a pulp and tie him to a flagpole for all to see. He’d rather set his Baby on fire than have to go through with this. As much as he wants Cas, he knows he can’t do this to him. Dean will never be good enough for him, he will never deserve him, and there are better people out there who would never abandon him or force him to find comfort elsewhere. If the man sitting beside Cas is indeed a new lover, than he’s already a far superior man that Dean is. He’s here for Cas. Dean wasn’t. End of story.

Dean drops his hand, wondering if he should still knock, wondering if he should still apologize or maybe even wish Cas luck in his new relationship. He feels like he ought to at least give Cas some closure, because Dean knows he needs it too.

Before Dean can knock, the door swings open. It’s not Cas standing there, staring at him with an intense, questioning glare. It’s the guy, and he’s tall and blonde and looks like he comes from money, too. Yeah, Dean doesn’t think he can compete with him, anyway. Cas is better off with whoever this guy is.

“Dean Winchester?” The guy asks, his hands on the doorframe as if to block Dean’s view into the house. His voice is strong and British, which makes Dean feel even worse. Not a family member, then, but probably a new boyfriend. Ouch.

“Yeah,” Dean grieves, feeling defeated. “Can I talk to Cas?”

There’s a moment when the guy looks like he’s thinking the question over, but then his stance changes and becomes more aggressive. Anger washes over his face, erasing any hint of hospitality that might have been there before. He thinks the guy might be preparing himself to tell Dean off, to rub his relationship with Cas in Dean’s face, but then the guy’s fist clenches and his arm cocks backward.

Dean sees it coming, but he doesn’t stop it. He knows he deserves it, and a small part of himself actually kind of wants it.

The guy punches Dean square in the face, right on the juncture between his nose and eye, and it’s so hard that he goes flying backward. He lets himself fall, not caring enough to soften the impact of the concrete path he’s about to land on. The last thing Dean hears before his head hits the ground is the sound of Cas’ voice, deep and gravelly and beautiful as he calls out Balthazar’s name.


	21. Chapter 21

Fuck, Dean hurts.

There was no blissful escape from consciousness when he fell. His head clouted against the cement, a sickening pop echoing through his skull and out his ears like the ricochet of a bullet. Instinct drives his hands toward his face, pressing against his eyes and cheeks as if trying to keep his head from falling apart. The rest of him is still, unwilling to move, limp and languid on the ground.

Cas’ voice, that beautifully rich timbre that Dean would recognize anywhere, grows louder as his footsteps rush forward. Cas drops to his knees beside Dean, shouting something at his British comrade as he gently touches Dean’s temples, turning his head to the side for a closer look at the damage.

Balthazar is roaring something back, but Dean gets the impression that it’s aimed at him, not Cas. He can’t understand what’s being said, like the words were put through a blender before they were spoken, just a series of noises and letters that don’t make sense. Cas’ fingers brush over the softer hairs on the back of Dean’s head, light and timid as if he’s afraid of hurting Dean further. He’s feeling blindly over the surface, searching for a bump or a crack or anything that will help him assess Dean’s condition. Christ, the throbbing pulses in Dean’s skull thicken and twist until his entire dome is just one big pounding sensation, like he’s falling backward over and over again, shattering his head on repeat.

Dean’s face hurts, too. There’s a warm trickle seeping out of his nose, which is undoubtedly bruised and swollen from the punch he refused to dodge. Balthazar has a deceptively strong arm, and though he braced himself for that particular impact, he still wasn’t expecting it to hurt so much. To the best of his currently limited knowledge, he thinks this is the first time he’s ever fallen after getting hit in the face.

As Cas tilts his head to the other side, things begin settling into place and clarifying. Balthazar is standing off to the side, his arms crossed defiantly over his chest. He’s speaking, and the words start taking shape and reorganizing themselves into coherent sentences. He’s telling Cas that Dean deserved it, that he’s not sorry, that he’d do it again in a heartbeat. Dean supposes Balthazar is right; he deserves every act of retribution that he gets.

Cas seems more irritated by Balthazar’s rambling than sad, like he agrees with everything that’s being said but just doesn’t want to hear it. He’s still looking over Dean’s head, his eyes straying occasionally to steal harmless little glances at Dean’s eyes and lips, lingering a bit longer with each stolen look. Dean wants to tell him that it’s okay, that he just wants to look at Cas too, to absorb him in every way possible and never let go. He keeps his mouth closed, though, afraid to come off too strong and heavy for their reunion.

“Just leave him there, Cassie,” Balthazar insists, stepping closer, “he’ll get up and go away eventually.”

Cas doesn’t reply, but he does shoot a warning glance in Balthazar’s direction. Thank God, because Dean is in too much pain to get up and he doesn’t want to be left alone.

Sensations return to Dean’s body, and all at once he can feel everything on and around him. The cool, hard cement beneath his back, the ache crawling up and down his spine, even the tender warmth of Cas’ fingers as they hesitantly smooth down Dean’s hair. He can feel his tongue now, too, heavy and dry in his mouth. He focuses on its movement, willing himself to speak.

“Asshole,” Dean mumbles, using his returned ability to insult the bastard who hit him and possibly stole his boyfriend. Balthazar just smirks, shaking his head.

“Oh look,” Balthazar belittles, a smug arrogance taking over his features, “he knows his name.”

“Baz,” Cas fumes, turning toward him and motioning something that Dean can’t see. Balthazar rolls his eyes, but drops his arms and saunters back into the house. Dean doesn’t know for sure, his head is still foggy and his view is limited where he’s lying on the ground, but he’s fairly confident that Balthazar actually turned up his nose when he walked away.

Cas watches his friend reluctantly go inside, keeps watching until the door is firmly closed behind him, then turns toward Dean and sighs, tilting his head. Dean concentrates on Cas’ face, blinking away the blurred and fuzzy vignette of his vision. They stare at each other for a moment, and he wonders if Cas is aware that his hand is still petting down Dean’s stray, rebellious strands of hair. It’s comforting, almost as if Cas isn’t just smoothing his hair, but all the jagged edges of his emotional wounds as well.

Dean allows to silence to flood the space between them, taking in Cas’ features and committing them to memory once again, etching every detail in his mind like a master topographer. Two weeks have done little to change Cas’ overwhelming loveliness, though there are some devastating differences that weigh heavily on Dean’s heart. Cas’ skin is pale, even more so than usual – it looks less like the smooth surface of buttercream and more like the withered petals of a dying white rose. There’s a stark contrast beneath his woebegone eyes, purpled and tired like he’s forgotten how to sleep.  Despite the painful understanding that those changes are Dean’s fault, that he’s responsible for the shadows overtaking his lover’s face, he can’t help but appreciate the beauty that still emanates from every pore on Cas’ body.

Dean used to see the night sky reflected in Cas’ features, his crystal eyes shining like two bright stars beneath his dark wealth of hair, but the face he sees now seems to echo something entirely different. Maybe it’s all the heated blood thundering behind Dean’s eyes, or maybe he has a concussion, but as he continues to stare at the man he still selfishly loves, he’s reminded of the way the moonlight dances across quavering ocean waves. Cas’ eyes, no longer shimmering gemstones, seem to glow at the mercy of the dim and dusky pools beneath them.

He wants to stay in this moment as long as possible, knowing that once he’s back on his feet, he’ll have to talk with Cas and there’s a good chance the conversation won’t end well. Dean might have already lost him, might have already ruined the last good thing in his life, but in this lingering moment he’s able to pretend that Cas still loves him. Dean is so warmed and comforted by Cas’ touch that he has to fight the urge to close his eyes. Exhaustion has finally caught up with him, not that it wasn’t trailing close behind him anyway during his two week marathon, but now it’s creeping over him like a blanket made of insects, heavy and prickling against his skin.

“Dean,” Cas says, breaking the silence, “are you okay? Can you stand?”

Dean swallows the budding lump in his throat, attempting to focus on both Cas’ questions and the potential answers. Whether or not he can stand has yet to be determined, it’s something he’ll just have to try and see how it goes, but there’s no real reason aside from the possible concussion that would limit his ability to stand. He wonders why Cas would ask such a silly question, but then it occurs to Dean that he’s been lying on the cement pathway after hitting his head, barely moving anything but his hands, and Cas is most likely trying to gauge whether or not Dean needs to go to the hospital.

“I’m fine,” Dean assures, though he’s not sure if it’s the truth. He hasn’t seen the physical damage yet, he doesn’t know how bad his face is going to bruise and swell or if the back of his skull is still intact, but he does know that his insides are blistered and bubbling with all the fear and unspoken words he’s harbored since Lisa showed up.

“Let’s get you inside,” Cas sighs, taking Dean’s hand in his own. He pulls slowly, placing his free hand on Dean’s back, just between the shoulder blades, to help him up. When Dean is finally sitting upright, the throbs of thunder pulsing in his head turn sharp and crippling for just a moment before settling, softening the pain into a dull beat that’s not too bad. It still hurts, but at least now it feels more like a manageable headache than something worthy of an E.R. visit.

Cas helps him rise to his feet, and waits patiently for Dean to take a few deep breaths and regain his balance. He keeps a hand on Dean at all times, making sure he’s not going to fall over or suddenly pass out. As they’re walking toward the door, Cas’ hand slides carefully from between Dean’s shoulder blades down to the small of his back, his fingers tracing familiar, reassuring patterns that revive the hope he thought was gone for good.

Dean is guided to the breakfast table in the kitchen, thankful for the dimmed, recessed lighting that Cas is rich enough to afford. The soft light seems to help Dean’s headache, which is nice. Cas is searching through his cupboards, pulling out various pill bottles and inspecting their labels. After a few minutes, he returns to the table and sits beside Dean, handing him two reddish pills and a glass of water.

“Take these,” Cas instructs, his voice still sounding defeated.

Dean pops them in his mouth and swallows them dry, another useful trick he learned growing up on the road without basic amenities like running water. It leaves a bitter flavor in his mouth and a light chalky film on his tongue, so he knocks back the water in a couple of gulps to kill the unpleasant aftertaste.

“Thanks,” Dean mumbles, feeling more embarrassed than appreciative. Cas goes back into the kitchen, opening the freezer and pulling out an ice pack. He wraps it in a dish towel, then brings it to Dean. He stands there awkwardly for a moment, making small and hesitant movements with the wrapped ice pack in his hands, and it seems he’s unable to decide whether or not he should hold it against Dean’s head or just hand it over. Cas settles on placing it in front of Dean on the table, telling him to keep the back of his head cool to reduce the swelling. Dean just nods, a little sad that Cas chose to touch him as little as possible.

“I…uh,” Dean starts, tripping over the words with his clumsy tongue. Cas lifts an eyebrow, waiting for him to continue.

Balthazar returns to the kitchen fully dressed, his keys dangling noisily from his hand. Dean can’t help but notice how professional and affluent Balthazar looks in his crisp, clean clothes. He’s attractive, smart, and apparently protects Cas when he needs defending. Half of Dean is in agonizing pain at the sight, at seeing how much better Balthazar fits into Cas’ life like he belongs there, like they’re equals rather than a valiant prince and a helpless damsel. The other half of him feels a sense of relief, because he knows it’s what Cas deserves and he just wants Cas to be happy. He shouldn’t have to be stuck with Dean out of pity or obligation.

Balthazar gives Cas an apologetic smile, and Cas returns it with a quirk of his lips and warmth in his eyes. “It’s a bit crowded here, so I think I’ll head out and get some coffee,” Balthazar explains, straightening his light blue sweater.

“I’ll text you,” Cas says, giving the arrogant blonde a look that speaks a language Dean can’t decipher. Balthazar nods in response, understanding the message loud and clear, whatever it is. Dean knows that the guy isn’t leaving just to avoid him, he’s intentionally giving Cas some privacy to have a discussion with the man he just knocked to the ground. That much is obvious, but he’s not sure what the hidden meaning is behind Cas’ comment.

Then Balthazar is gone, and Dean can hear the sound of his car starting and driving away. Good fucking riddance.

Dean is nervous now, insecure and uncertain how to proceed. He came here with the intention of apologizing and begging for forgiveness, professing his eternal love and giving him the key Cas should have been given weeks ago. Dean still wants to say and do those things, but he’s afraid of rejection and the possibility that Cas and Balthazar are together. Even if they’re not dating, they could have easily had a quick rebound fuck to help Cas get Dean out of his system. He hates picturing it, but the image burns in his brain like battery acid and bleach, making him feel sick to his stomach.

When Dean doesn’t say anything, Cas exhales and reaches across the table, setting his hand on top of Dean’s and letting his fingertips run over the knuckles. Dean reddens at that, but whether it’s from shame or fear or arousal is unclear. A rush of emotion catches him off guard, and everything he’s felt in the last two weeks pours over him in relentless torrents. He can feel the threat of tears building in his eyes, that tell-tale lump in his throat, and suddenly Dean is capsizing. He cries like the pathetic runt he is, sobbing and choking on his hitching breath.

Cas pulls back his hand immediately, afraid that his mild gesture was the final straw that broke the camel’s back. He must realize after a moment that even if it was his fault, he can’t take back the gesture and the damage is done. Cas rises from his chair, trembling with his own fair share of uncertainty and fear, then wraps his arms around Dean and holds him until the worst of the storm is over.

Dean cries for nearly ten minutes, his sobs made worse by the generosity of Cas’ embrace. It reminds him of everything he stands to lose, of how pointless everything will be if Cas disappears from his life. He doesn’t deserve the soothing hug Cas is giving him, he doesn’t deserve the kind little kisses Cas is planting on his neck and shoulder or the soft _it’s okay_ repeated in his ear.

When Dean is finally calm, his well of tears depleted and dried on his face, he steadies himself with a deep breath and leans forward. He folds his arms on the table and rests his aching head on the crook of his elbow, feeling hollowed out and emptier than he has in a long time. Cas rubs his back for another moment, then steps away to return to his seat.

Cas seems to be at a loss for words, looking just as hopeless and confused as Dean feels, but when they find themselves caught in another awkward bout of silence, he’s the first to summon enough courage to speak.

“So,” Cas starts, speaking lightly, “you came here to talk to me?”

Yeah, he did, but now Dean doesn’t know what to say. The pain in his head has slowly begun to ebb, but now he’s tired and just wants to collapse for a while. This is important though, so he sucks it up and does what he can to shake away his nerves, but before he says all the things on his mind, he knows there’s one question he has to ask first.

Dean nods, looking steadfastly at the table, “You and Balthazar?”

Cas looks confused for a moment, narrowing his eyes and tilting his head, until the vague question uttered between Dean’s trembling lips makes sense. Mercifully, Cas shakes his head with a small huff of laughter. “No, it’s not like that. He’s here because I am having a difficult time and I didn’t want to be alone.”

There’s a subtle accusation there, but Cas is far too polite to come right out and say what ought to be said. Dean wasn’t there for him when he should have been.

“I thought you were going to break up with me,” Dean explains, still staring at the table. “I didn’t think there was any way you’d stay with me after the mess with Lisa. The thought was unbearable.”

It almost shocks him how open and honest he’s being, especially when it comes to his fears of abandonment, but he feels safe around Cas and he knows this conversation has to happen.

“Dean,” Cas groans, shaking his head, “how could you think that after everything we’ve been through together?”

“It’s _because_ of everything we’ve been through, Cas. I just…this past year has been Hell, okay? You’ve been so good to me, but you don’t deserve all that crap. You shouldn’t have to put up with all the shit going on in my life. And now, fuck, there’s a baby on the way and I didn’t think you wanted to be a part of that.”

Cas considers that information for a moment, still looking a little baffled about Dean’s confession. He smiles about something, but Dean isn’t sure what. He didn’t think this conversation was very humorous, but whatever is going through Cas’ mind must be funny because his chest hitches with a noiseless laugh.

“What?” Dean asks, trying not to sound too demanding or offended.

“You were hiding from me because you thought I was going to break up with you,” Cas summarizes, his lips still upturned in a smile, “and I thought the distance between us was your way of ending our relationship.”

Dean kind of figured that’s how Cas felt when he found the love notes in his mailbox, but it still pains him to hear it confirmed. Dean could barely function when he thought Cas was going to end things, and if that level of love was reciprocated, then Cas must have been going through the same thing, too. He was obviously so alone and desperate for help that he called Balthazar to come keep him company. Maybe if he had just called one of their mutual friends, this whole mix up could have been avoided or remedied much sooner. But Dean can’t put that on Cas, it’s not his fault, and if he thought Dean was breaking up with him then he probably didn’t feel comfortable calling someone that was also Dean’s friend.

“Stupid, I know,” Dean struggled, resisting the urge to pull Cas close and kiss him until their faces are numb.

“You should have talked to me,” Cas says, the smile leaving his face. His eyes seem to darken as a heavy sadness overtakes his features, making it even harder for Dean to stay in his seat and keep his hands to himself.

“Yeah, I should have. I’m sorry,” Dean says, lifting his eyes from the table so he can watch Cas more closely. He searches Cas’ troubled eyes for any sign of forgiveness, any hint that this could turn out okay. Dean can find nothing, because aside from the palpable gloom of their situation, Cas has a convincing poker face and knows how to handle his emotions in the way some men handle their liquor.

“But you didn’t,” he intones, and Dean can feel his heart picking up speed. He doesn’t like the direction Cas is nudging the conversation.

“You’re right. I wish I had.”

Cas scrapes his fingers through his hair, dragging them across his scalp in frustration. He squeezes his eyes shut, and Dean thinks that Cas might be trying not to cry. He can’t tell for sure, because Cas’ breath is steady with the rise and fall of his chest, and his cheeks aren’t flushing red in anger or sorrow. The tranquil way he’s holding himself, minus the tight way he’s forcing his eyes to stay closed, almost makes him look like he’s meditating.

“You shoved me, Dean. I begged you not to leave, and you literally shoved me away.”

Pushing Cas the way he did, heartless and powerful against his chest, is something that Dean will regret for the rest of his life. He had been so angry, burning from the inside out and blinded by rage, he couldn’t control the violent impulse that rocked through his body when Cas tried to stop him from leaving. Dean felt cornered and petrified like a rabbit trapped in a snare, writhing and wriggling in an attempt to get free, an easy meal for anyone who happened across his plight. It’s no excuse, and there’s no talking his way out of this particular sin.

“I was losing it. I couldn’t…I wasn’t thinking straight. I’m ashamed of myself, Cas. I never wanted to hurt you, but it seems like that’s all I ever do,” Dean says, his voice catching on the lump that’s still in his throat. He feels so completely guilty and worthless for putting his hands on Cas like that, for hurting him instead of letting him in. It reminds Dean why he let Balthazar punch him in the face, and why he didn’t bother cushioning the fall.

Cas huffs and opens his eyes, looking away from Dean. It’s not intentional avoidance, it’s just something Cas does when he’s lost in thought. He’ll look away like something else caught his attention, staring out into nothing until he resurfaces from the depths of his contemplations.

“Why are you talking to me now, after ignoring me for two weeks? Did something happen with Lisa?” Cas asks, and this time the tone of his voice gives him away. Dean thinks he understands the real question hidden in the false one, that Cas is worried Dean is only here to update him on the Lisa situation.

“No,” Dean says, more quickly and desperately than he would have liked, “I found the notes you left in my mailbox. I haven’t really been home, and I never checked the mail. When I saw the things you wrote, I realized how fucking stupid I’ve been. I thought –”

He cuts himself off, deciding not to finish that sentence. Dean doesn’t think he’s ready to admit that yet, that he came here thinking there could still be a chance to save their relationship. He needs to get a better idea of what Cas is thinking and feeling before he admits that much.

Cas doesn’t seem to notice Dean’s abrupt stop. He looks shocked, his mouth hanging open and his eyes wide with a sudden flush of understanding. “You didn’t see the notes?”

“Not until right before I came here. I really believed that you were just going to break up with me as soon as you saw me, but then I read the notes. I had to see you.”

“Oh,” is all Cas says for a minute, but Dean can tell there’s more on his mind, so he stays quiet. Unfortunately, whatever Cas was mulling around in his mind stays there, a secret unspoken.

Cas gets up from the table and walks toward his sink, grabbing one of the coffee mugs that had been sitting on the counter. He rinses it with some hot water and dries it with a paper towel, then fills it with the coffee that’s been brewing since whenever Cas first woke up.  He sips on his hot beverage, skipping the caramel creamer he’s so fond of, then absentmindedly chews on his lower lip. If it weren’t for the persistent ache in Dean’s heart, he could almost pretend that this is any other morning, that he and Cas are up early and sharing a pot of coffee together. He’d be standing behind Cas, rubbing his shoulders with the extra firm grip he loves, feeling Cas’ muscles melt beneath the pressure. They’ve had plenty of mornings just like that, and Dean can’t help but selfishly wish for more.

That quick, flitting image of him and Cas together, happy and soothing and warm, gives him the final push he needed to tell Cas why he’s really here, what he wants for them and their future. The fluttering bird of hope plummets down into the pit of his stomach, splashing around until Dean can feel the bile rising up his throat. He swallows it back with determination, unwilling to let a little nervous nausea stop him from trying to win back the man he knows he can’t live without.

“I know I can’t change what happened, but I love you, Cas. I love you, and I want us to be together,” Dean manages to say, despite the shakiness of his voice and the fear in his heart.

Cas twists his body sharply toward him, almost choking on the coffee before he’s able to swallow it. _Now_ Cas flushes, a soft pink glow blooming over his cheeks and neck as he stares dazedly at Dean. It breaks through whatever wall he had built around himself, banishing the barriers between them, and Dean can finally see into the depth of Cas’ fear and apprehension. He’s scared, just as anxious and muddled as Dean is, but there’s another emotion buried in there somewhere between the layers of trepidation and unease. Dean can feel it the moment he recognizes it, stoking the smoldering embers of his selfish wish.

He did a good job of hiding it, but now those buried feelings have surfaced and they can both sense it in their air between them.

Need. Longing. Each hurting for the other.

“Do you mean that?” Cas whispers, still staring open mouthed at Dean, unblinking.

Dean gets up from the table, forgetting about the ice pack and ignoring the shrill, painful drumming in the back of his head. He walks through the kitchen until he’s closer to Cas, feeling dizzy and light-headed but still determined to reach him. He’s only a few steps away, but the moment Dean crosses some invisible line, Cas takes a few steps backward, keeping his distance.

It hurts, but it doesn’t quite feel like rejection. Dean stops as soon as Cas made it clear he was too close, and he doesn’t try to reach out or do anything that might make him more uncomfortable. Cas’ breath comes quickly in shallow gasps, the pink of his skin deepening into a darker hue. It reminds him of the way Cas always looks after sex, tired and reddened and sweaty. It’s a terrible thought, because now Dean’s not only desperate and scared, but also a little turned on and aching to touch him.

“I thought I would die to hear those words,” Cas starts, his voice low and breathy. It fills the lungs of the hummingbird flapping wildly in his chest, chirping and singing like the sun has risen for the first time in weeks. It lasts for all of thirty seconds, until Cas continues, “but now…now it just makes me scared, Dean.”

“Talk to me,” Dean pleads, practically begging Cas to elaborate so he can fix whatever the problem is, and they both ignore the irony of that particular statement.

“Honestly, how can I trust you? That was the first real test on our relationship, and you discarded me like trash. You wouldn’t even answer the door when I knocked. I’ve never felt so disposable in my entire life,” he answers, his eyes wide and wet with brimming tears. He’s looking at Dean like a wounded animal looks at its predator, a soft prayer for clemency despite knowing the end is coming anyway.

But Dean doesn’t want there to be an end. He doesn’t want to hurt Cas or take advantage of him, he doesn’t want to say goodbye and let the sun set on the most beautiful part of his life. He never meant to hurt Cas so deeply, and hearing that he felt like _trash_ only sickens Dean further.

“I fucked up real bad, Cas. I know it’s not an excuse, but this has been one of the hardest years of my life. I’m weak, okay? I’m weak and I couldn’t handle it. But I don’t want this to be over,” Dean quivers, his fingers shaking as he motions between them, “I can make it up to you, I promise.”

Cas shakes his head, the tears spilling over his thick lower lashes, darkening them into a thick onyx line. Dean wants to wipe away the tears with his thumb, just a careful brush of his finger over the delicate skin under Cas’ eyes. He’d kiss them away too if he had the chance, his lips plush and dry against the falling droplets leaving trails down Cas’ face. It’s girly as Hell, but Dean just doesn’t care anymore. He’d wear a goddamn dress if it would make Cas happy, if it would redeem him somehow from all the mistakes he’s made.

“You’ve always been closed off, though, Dean. You never tell me what’s on your mind or what’s bothering you. I feel like you’ve never really let me in to your heart, like you’ve been keeping me at a distance all this time. What if something like this happens again? I’ll always worry, I’ll always be afraid of you shutting me out like this again.”

“I won’t,” Dean promises, taking a single step forward. Cas is pressed up against the counter now, unable to step back any further, so Dean stops, not wanting to corner him. “I only shut you out because I thought you were going to leave me. I thought you were going to try and let me down easy. I swear, if I knew how you felt I would have never done that.”

Cas wipes away a falling tear with the back of his hand, taking a deep breath. “That’s my whole point. You would have known exactly how I felt if you had just talked to me in the first place. I’ve spent the last two weeks trying to figure out what I had done so wrong to deserve that kind of treatment from you,” he fumes, getting angrier with each word he spits. Dean can’t remember a time he ever saw Cas this upset, he’s usually so calm and even tempered about everything that seeing him this way feels unnatural. It’s just another tally mark to add to the list of things Dean has done to screw everything up.

Dean is about to say something, he wants to defend himself or calm Cas down or both, but then he hears Cas mutter something that sends a jolt of panic coursing up and down his spine.

“I should have known better than to fall in love with a broken man.”

He said it quietly, like maybe he meant to say it to himself, or maybe he didn’t mean to say it aloud at all. Dean freezes, feeling completely and utterly gutted at Cas’ admission.

“Fuck,” Dean gasps, his hand clutching at the fabric over his chest, “not you, too.”

Cas’ demeanor changes as soon as he sees the effect his words had on Dean, suddenly worried and anxious in a different way than their conversation had them. He realizes what he said, what Dean heard, and just like Lisa after her own furious confession, Cas tries to backpedal and apologize.

“I’m sorry, Dean, that’s not what I meant,” he assures, closing the gap between them as he steps away from the counter, placing a cautious hand on Dean’s shoulder. Then he asks, “not me?”

Dean can feel that old familiar panic setting in, but before it steals away his ability to breathe, he manages to answer Cas’ question. “Everyone thinks I’m broken. Everyone says it. I thought…” he pauses, catching his breath and trying to calm down, “I thought you were the exception. I thought you were the only person who didn’t see me as some kind of _thing_ that can’t be fixed.”

Cas is at a loss for words, just shaking his head in disbelief that he let such a hurtful comment slip out like that. Dean…well, Dean has no idea how he feels. He focuses on getting his panic under control, slowing and deepening his breaths while he counts sluggishly to ten. He felt dizzy from the lack of air, but he regained control of his aching lungs and stopped himself from passing out. Dean’s heart won’t seem to slow, though, still running an Olympic marathon somewhere in the bottom of his throat.

He’s so tired of hearing how broken he is, how much of a shell he’s become like life somehow hollowed out his core and just left the rest of him to wander the Earth, incomplete. Bobby’s said it, Ellen’s said it, even Charlie and Jo have said similar things when they were trying to motivate him to be better. It’s why Sam left, because he couldn’t seem to repair Dean in the way he wanted, and it’s why Lisa left, too. She said as much when she came back, apparently so put off by Dean’s brokenness that she couldn’t bear to raise a child with him.

Cas made Dean feel like he was whole, like he isn’t some damaged toy that parents take away from their kids when it can’t be mended. Cas was supposed to be the one person on this Earth that didn’t see him that way, that loved him not just for the few strengths and skills he has, but for all of his faults, too. He was Dean’s goddamned North Star, the one bright light he knew he could always follow to find love and comfort and safety.

Maybe they really are over, now. The pain he feels piercing through him seems final, feels too real to be anything but The End.

“I love you,” Cas blurts, his hand smoothing over the fabric covering Dean’s shoulder.

Dean’s head bolts upright, his eyes connecting with Cas’ and searching for truth. He doesn’t think he could handle it if Cas only said it because he was sorry, or because he didn’t want to hurt Dean’s feelings with his callous remark. They only stare at each other for one long, tense moment, then Cas is pressing himself up against Dean and crushing their mouths together.

It’s sloppy and uncoordinated, and takes Dean a few extra seconds to get with the program. He doesn’t understand what’s happening, or why Cas is suddenly kissing him and touching him with a dramatic sense of urgency. It’s exactly what Dean wanted, but he’s not sure why he’s getting it now after their spiraling discussion that seemed to plummet faster and faster until it crashed into the ground.

He can’t fight it, though. Even if he really wanted it to stop, he doesn’t think he could muster the energy or control to turn Cas away. Terror prowls in the back of Dean’s throat, cold and unrelenting despite the warmth of Cas’ tongue, but the way he’s working his mouth against Dean’s makes him think that Cas knows what’s lurking back there, like he’s trying to smooth it over with his tongue until all Dean can feel or think about is pleasure.

Cas’ hands make their way up to the base of Dean’s throat, his fingertips resting along the collar bones and the hollowed skin that dips just above them. Cas glides them up further still, pausing once over the hammering rhythm of his pulse, then laces them behind Dean’s nape, pulling his head closer and forcing his mouth to open wider. Dean hisses and winces at the pressure, the back of his head still sore and throbbing in pain. Cas inhales sharply when he remembers Dean’s fresh injury, dropping his hands back down to Dean’s waist instead.

Dean wants to know what this means, he wants to know what Cas is thinking and why they’re suddenly clinging to each other like the desperate idiots they are, but he can’t break himself away from Cas’ lips or hands long enough to ask. He’s scared of what Cas might say, and he’s scared that this is all just some kind of apology for what he said rather than the uncontrollable burst of passion he wants it to be.

When Cas’ hands find the buckle of Dean’s belt and start working it open, Dean stops holding himself back. He moans into the kiss and lets his own hands wander, stroking up and down Cas’ sides beneath his soft t-shirt.  It doubles Cas’ enthusiasm, which Dean didn’t think was possible considering how devotedly he’s licking into Dean’s mouth, nipping at his lips or sucking on his tongue when he gets enough of it. Cas pulls off Dean’s belt in one suave motion, pushing their hips together with his hands still between them, tugging on Dean’s button and zipper.

He lets Cas roughly jerk down his jeans and boxers until they drop to the floor, and he doesn’t have enough time to step out of them before Cas is panting out instructions, telling him to get on his back and spread his legs. Dean tries to descend slowly, his feet still tangled in his jeans and his headache throbbing, but Cas is too hungry and impatient to wait. He pulls Dean down, keeping one strong arm braced behind his neck, protecting his head and softening the fall onto the hardwood floor. Dean groans at the feel of the cold, unyielding surface beneath his back, scared his head is going to collide with the ground, but Cas keeps his right arm secure around his shoulders and neck like a makeshift pillow. With his free hand, Cas yanks off his own sweatpants and kicks them away, revealing his naked form and that perfect, achingly-thick cock of his.

The adrenaline alone was enough to get Dean hard and ready, but seeing Cas let go like this and completely taking control is responsible for the way his cock twitches in anticipation, leaking beads of pre-come where it curves up onto his belly. Cas covers Dean’s lips with his, licking his way into Dean’s mouth again and moaning. Without breaking the kiss, Cas grinds their dicks together with the roll of his hips, dragging the sensitive nerves over the soft skin between their bodies, repeating the movement until they’re both slicked with pre-come and shaking with need.

Cas pulls his lips away from Dean’s, catching his breath and reaching between them to grip the base of his cock. Dean manages to tilt his head enough to see Cas line himself up, prodding at Dean’s rim until he pushes forward, sinking into him slowly. He wanted it so badly that the pressure doesn’t even hurt, just fills and stretches him in that too-good way only Cas has ever given him, that no one else could ever do the same.

Once Cas is as deep as he can possibly go, his left hand hooks under Dean’s right knee and forces his leg down, bending Dean in half as his knee touches the hardwood floor by his rib cage. It tilts his ass higher up in the air and seems to open him impossibly wider, allowing Cas to bury himself a little further. He starts rocking his hips and thrusting forward, fucking into Dean with enough force that they slide along the floor. It doesn’t stop or slow the way Cas is moving, but once they’re up against the cabinets, he uses them as leverage and the thrusts get faster and harder.

It feels so mind-blowingly good that Dean doesn’t think he’s going to need any help getting off, that only Cas moving effortlessly inside him and against his prostate will do the trick. Cas’ mouth is wet and open against his neck, sucking hard on the pulse points and the sensitive skin just below his jawline. Dean can feel Cas’ teeth as well as his lips and tongue, his neck feeling wet and tender, and he knows he’s going to be covered in territorial bruises from it all, but he doesn’t care. The way Cas’ hot breath puffs out against his spit-slick skin is worth it.

Beads of sweat trail off of Cas’ nape and hairline, dampening his dark hair into curls that stick against his skin. Dean reaches up with a hand and wipes the hair on Cas’ forehead away, a small romantic gesture that drives Cas crazy with lust and heightened desire. He smiles as he quickens the pace, driving into Dean with blinding speed, and it sparks against that white-hot point of pleasure. Dean can feel his orgasm building as Cas drills into that spot over and over; he’s shaking uncontrollably with all the bliss coursing through his body, his shallow breaths devolving into whimpering moans as he begs Cas not to stop, not to slow down, and then he’s coming. Dean yells with how amazing it feels, his cock twitching with aftershocks as Cas continues to fuck him relentlessly.

Everything on Dean’s body is suddenly hypersensitive: his sweat-damp skin beneath Cas’ touch, his aching rim as it stretches to accommodate Cas’ demanding thrusts, even the small strings of come that are still leaking out of him feel hot and syrupy as they drip down the length of his spent, softening cock. He rides out the remaining waves of his orgasm with his eyes closed tight, turning his head to side so he can lazily kiss Cas’ arm.

Cas puts his lips over Dean’s ear then, licking along the outer shell, whispering promises of love and devotion like sweet nothings. It occurs to Dean in a hazy thought that this is the most cherished and treasured that he’s ever felt, and he’s not even sure if he and Cas are still together. Worry blooms again in his hopeful heart, warring with the blissful afterglow of his intense orgasm. Cas is still racing toward his own climax, moaning and grunting with every tired breath, then comes with a particularly forceful thrust and Dean’s name on his lips.

He collapses on top of Dean, his worn-out muscles trembling as he gasps to catch his breath. They lay together on the hardwood floor for a while, basking in each other’s arms and the smell of their sexed, languid bodies. Cas had been running his fingers lightly over Dean’s chest, but the moment his wet, softened cock slipped out of Dean’s well-used ass, he stopped. Actually, now that the afterglow has ended for both of them, Cas looks strangely upset. He shifts his attention to a blank space on the wall, thinking about something, then sighs as he carefully slides his arm out from behind Dean’s head.

Cas stands and helps Dean to his feet, and the painful awkwardness that was there before the sex returns almost immediately. Cas seems to be treading carefully, not really looking at Dean or touching him either, wordlessly getting dressed and filling a tall glass with cold water. He drinks it down, then asks Dean – without looking at him – if he would like a glass of water, too.

Dean is too distracted and frustrated by how the mood went sour, so he replies with a terse _no_ and gets his clothes on. When he can’t stand the idle silence anymore, he asks, “So, what was that? Goodbye sex?”

Cas frowns and shakes his head, refilling his glass with more water. “No, but…we shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry.”

“Why? If it wasn’t goodbye sex, then what’s the problem? I mean, I pretty much laid everything out on the table, and you’re giving me some really mixed signals here.”

“I just need some time, Dean. Today has been very enlightening, to say the least,” he intones, his voice dropping as if he thinks that saying it quieter will make it less painful.

Dean doesn’t really know what that means, but he should have expected this. It was foolish of him to come here with any optimism that they’d get back together, and he shouldn’t have assumed that Cas fucking him into the floor meant anything more than a way to release all the pent up tension between them. He feels both angry and heartbroken, mad at himself for opening up and exposing the tender parts of his soul that he usually keeps under lock and key.

“What does that mean, Cas?” Dean asks, dejected and downhearted.

“It means…I love you, Dean. I want us to be together too, but after the last two weeks, I need some time to think everything over and figure out if it’s a good idea. Honestly, I think you should do the same. You need to talk with Lisa and get that situation sorted out first, okay? I want you to be completely sure that I’m what you want before we take this any further,” Cas explains, still not looking in Dean’s direction. It pisses him off that Cas apparently has no problem making promises of forever during sex, but then shamelessly says they need a break when the fun part is over. The worst part is that Dean believed every word of it. Hook, line, and sinker.

“I know what I want, Cas, and it’s you.”

“I believe you,” Cas sighs, rubbing his hand over his face, “but I still need to let all of this sink in. It’s been a hard couple of weeks for both of us.”

“Maybe you should have said that _before_ you fucked me,” Dean spits, his anger getting the best of him. The more he thinks about what just happened, about all the hope and happiness he let himself have while Cas basically had his way with him, the sicker and dirtier he feels.

Cas looks really guilty at that, his shoulders slumping and his lips turning down in unfiltered sorrow. “I’m sorry.”

Dean ignores the apology, jumping right into his next question. “How much time are we talking about here, Cas? Are we broken up or not?”

“No, Dean, we’re not. It’s just a break, so we can step back and re-evaluate. I love you, and I meant the things I said, but I need time. I don’t know how many more times you want me to say that,” Cas says, starting to get irritated. He’s looking at Dean now, willing him to understand what he’s is trying to explain.

“I get what you’re saying, I just don’t get the point of it. If you love someone, then you’re with them. If we’re not broken up, and if you love me and want to be with me, then why the fuck would we waste any more time apart? What do you have to think about that you need to be alone for?” Dean demands. He’s never understood how some couples can actually take breaks from each other, just like Cas is suggesting. It’s stupid and a goddamn waste of time. If people don’t want to be together, then they shouldn’t be together. A break isn’t a magic cure-all, and it feels like a chicken-shit way to cut a person out without having to actually say it.

“I explained this already, Dean. A lot has happened and I still don’t know if I can forgive you. I do want to be with you, but I need some time alone to figure out if what I want and what’s best for me are the same thing.”

“So it’s not really just a break, then. You just want me to wait while you figure out if you want to be with me or not,” Dean reiterates. At least when it’s explained that way, he can wrap his mind around it. It makes sense.

Cas takes a deep breath, looking away like he’s reluctant to answer. After a moment, he finally turns back toward Dean with an apologetic look on his face. “Yes.”

As much as Dean wants to start punching things, as much as he wants another tire iron and fancy Chevelle to beat the shit out of, he’s a little relieved that Cas finally admitted what this is.

He just hopes Cas decides that Dean is someone worth keeping.

“Okay,” Dean relents, his stomach twisting with some bastardized mix between gloom and doom and despair. He doesn’t know what else to say, not that he thinks there are any words that could actually make this situation any better. Actually, knowing himself, anything he says would probably just make it worse.

Dean leaves without saying goodbye. For some reason, it just seems like saying it would make it official, and he’s still stupidly clinging to the hope that Cas will decide to keep him. He hates that he has to live in this senseless limbo, waiting for Cas to determine his future and whether or not there will be any happiness in it.

The truth is that Dean wants Cas so badly that he’s willing to wait however long it takes. He won’t pressure him or force him to decide anything too early. He won’t nag him or try to weasel his way back into Cas’ life. He wants Cas, and he wants Cas to want him back, completely and without reservation. It fucking hurts like Hell to walk away, to not know if he’ll ever get to hold the man he loves again, to not know if this is the end, but he’s able to keep himself together long enough to crawl into his bed and cry himself to sleep.

When Dean wakes up again in the early afternoon, he’s feeling a little bit better, but not by much. He reaches for his phone, trying to ignore the way he feels utterly dead inside, and does what Cas told him to do. He calls Lisa, determined to start cleaning up the rest of the messes he left for everyone else to pick up.

She answers on the second ring. “ _Dean?_ ”

“Yeah, it’s me. We need to talk.”


	22. Chapter 22

“Can I go? I want to buy some cute stuff for the baby, too,” Charlie says, batting her long lashes in a futile attempt to win Dean over.

Dean shifts his tingling ass on the couch, sore and numb from sitting there for nearly four hours while he, Charlie, and Jo watch an Elvis movie marathon on television. Charlie is laying with her head in Dean’s lap, severely limiting his ability to adjust and get comfortable. Jo is sitting on the floor between Dean’s feet with a bowl of popcorn in her lap, occasionally tossing up buttery pieces behind her for one of them to catch with their mouths. Charlie very clearly has the advantage here, so it doesn’t feel particularly fair when they make jokes about Dean’s ability to catch stuff with his mouth.

The problem with Elvis movie marathons is that Jo is the only one who likes them. Charlie is gayer than Elton John singing a duet with Ellen DeGeneres, and Dean just never really understood the guy’s appeal. Yeah, he’s a talented guy who can dance and sing, and yeah, Dean doesn’t exactly mind watching the guy run around in a pair of short-shorts for a couple of hours, but he just doesn’t fit Dean’s categorical ‘type’.

Speaking of types, Dean is meeting up with Lisa in a couple hours to talk about the impending birth of their child, the woman who used to be his type but now very much isn’t. The whole situation is unequivocally _not_ funny, but he still can’t help but laugh every time he thinks about how she used to be the person he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. Now, Lisa has slipped further and deeper into that Elvis category: yeah, she’s a smart girl who can brighten a room with her smile, and yeah, Dean can’t deny that she looks great in a red bikini, but she’s just not what Dean wants anymore; not his type.

Charlie seems to possess a level of common sense that bypassed Dean on the way up his family tree, because she had to remind him that he currently has nothing for the baby, and if the entire history of documented human behavior is anything to go on, babies apparently need a lot of stuff. Dean asked Lisa to meet him at the mall so he could go shopping after they talk and have lunch, because there are a few baby stores there that both Jo and Charlie insisted were the best. Now Charlie is asking to go, but he doesn’t know if it’s a good idea to bring another person to his meeting with the woman carrying his child.

“I don’t think Lisa would be too happy if I showed up with another woman on my arm,” Dean says, trying to catch another flying piece of popcorn out of the air, but failing miserably. Charlie nabs it off his lap and crunches it with exaggerated pleasure, rubbing her delicious, buttery victory in his face.

“Or, while you’re having lunch with her, I can start shopping without you. Gotta get my little niece or nephew some sweet-ass gear,” Charlie smiles, still trying to win him over.

“Sweet-ass gear?” Jo repeats, rolling her eyes. “You’re just going to buy it a bunch of gamer stuff and clothes with nerdy catchphrases, aren’t you?”

Charlie sits up then, and Dean can finally feel the blood returning to his legs. “There aren’t enough gamers in this family, okay? Babies are like blank slates, so this is a perfect opportunity.”

“There aren’t enough athletes, either. Maybe we could also train it to play football and soccer,” Jo says, getting excited, “Think about it, a nerdy gamer who can also kick ass.”

“Oh my God, that’s a good idea. It will be like an amalgamation of everything this family is missing! Our own little hybrid human,” Charlie connives, creepily, twirling an invisible mustache.

Dean sighs, “Can you guys stop making weird plans to mold my unborn child? It’s not a ball of putty, for chrissakes. Besides, people aren’t blank slates when they’re born. If that were the case, we’d all be exactly who our parents wanted us to be. Don’t forget this kid is a Winchester, so it’ll probably turn out to be a horribly debilitated stubborn asshole.”

“Killjoy,” Jo accuses, pouting. She gets up from the floor with the empty bowl of popcorn and goes back into the kitchen, putting another bag in the microwave.

Charlie puts her arm over Dean’s shoulder and gives him a kind smile. “This baby is going to be amazing, so stop putting it and yourself down. You can discourage me all you want, but I’m still going to be the best aunt in the world and buy that kid a bunch of awesome stuff. You can’t deny that an ass-kicking nerd gamer would be spectacular.”

“In case you’ve forgotten, I was dating an ass-kicking nerd gamer up until recently. Your reminders are both unnecessary and annoying,” Dean points out, whining, resting his head back against her arm.

Charlie just rubs his shoulder and kisses his forehead like _he’s_ the damn baby, and now he’s more than ready to end this wretched conversation.

It’s one thing to know that he’s going to be a terrible father, but another to know that people are still treating him like a child when he’s expecting one of his own. He has no idea what he’s doing, or what he’s going to do when that baby comes out, but hopefully his conversation with Lisa today answers those questions and he can sleep a little more peacefully at night. Dean doesn’t really know anyone else with a kid, he hasn’t seen how children are _supposed_ to be raised, and all the inventive, makeshift ways he used to bring up his brother probably aren’t going to fly with this one.

Maybe bringing Charlie along for some shopping help wouldn’t be a bad idea.

Jo comes back in with a warm, fresh bowl of popcorn and resumes her place between Dean’s legs (a sentence he never thought would pass through his mind), but doesn’t hit the play button to continue their Elvis marathon. “I hate to be the one to say this, but what if it’s not your kid?”

Silence settles thick over the three of them, followed by Charlie kicking Jo in the arm. It was a gentle kick, one meant to bring attention to her apparent stupidity, but Jo hisses and clutches at her arm anyway. “I’m serious!” Jo insists, turning to face both Dean and Charlie, “You have no way of knowing if that baby is even yours. I love you, Dean, but seriously, if someone did that shit to me, the first thing I would ask for would be a paternity test. For all you know, she could have left because she knew it wasn’t your kid, but her baby daddy changed his mind and kicked her out at the last minute.”

“Jo!” Charlie scolds, giving her the patented Bradbury Stink-Eye of Death. It doesn’t deter Jo in the slightest. If anything, it only prompts her to continue her anti-Lisa tirade.

“Think about it, Dean,” Jo endures, not breaking eye contact now, “if she knew it was your baby, there’s no way she would have left without even telling you she was pregnant. Plus, she came back out of the blue, ready to pop, with no place to go and no money in her pockets. She didn’t just come back and tell you about the baby, she came back begging for a turn-key family complete with income and a house. I mean, what does that say about how she thinks of you? She honestly thought she could just come back and you’d be groveling at her feet. Fuck that bitch’s feelings and get a paternity test before you’re trapped with a woman you hate and a baby that isn’t yours.”

“Shut up, Jo!” Charlie yells, visibly angry now. The arm around Dean’s shoulders gets tight and protective to the point where it kind of hurts. Her nails are biting into his flesh, and if she doesn’t relax soon, Dean’s going to have crescent-shaped blood stains on his favorite Led Zeppelin shirt.

But Jo doesn’t shut up, not at all. In fact, she continues on with the persistence of a tortoise racing against a hare, trying to reach the finish line of her lecture-filled nagging spree. “How much do you want to bet that’s what Cas meant when he told you to get your Lisa shit figured out?”

What’s more annoying than Jo being a tenacious bitch is the fact that people have apparently assumed the thought never crossed Dean’s mind. Obviously it was the first thing he thought of, he’s not _that_ much of an idiot, but he didn’t pursue the issue when he realized that finding out the baby isn’t his would hurt a Hell of a lot more than ending up raising someone else’s child. After all, raising someone else’s kid is the story of his life, and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t a little excited about being a _real_ dad. He doesn’t know what Lisa has been up to, why she really left or why she’s suddenly back and in need of help, but he can’t imagine turning her away and throwing her to the wolves at this point.

Did he mention how much it would hurt if it wasn’t actually his kid? Because it would hurt. A lot.

The baby not being his would mean a lot of things. First, it would mean that Lisa is both lying to him and using him. Second, given how far along she is, it would mean that Lisa cheated on him while they were together and even after he proposed. Third, and perhaps the most important, if he accused her of cheating and lying, and it turned out that it _is_ his kid, that would make Dean a douchebag of epic proportions.

“I get it, Jo,” Dean responds, calmly, “I know you’re just looking out for me, but I don’t really need the extra help, okay?”

Jo gives him a final, lingering look of warning, then shrugs her shoulders and turns back around. She starts the marathon up again, and giggles when Elvis bends some poor blonde over his knee and spanks her for being ornery. The death grip on his shoulder loosens as well, mercifully, and Dean’s relieved that her nails didn’t break through his skin. The shirt is white, and there’s no way he would ever get blood stains out of it if they had.

They watch the remainder of the movie in silence, Jo being the only one sad about that fact, and now there’s only about thirty minutes left before he needs to meet Lisa at the mall. He gives Jo a goodbye hug when she rises to leave, but it’s colder than usual and a bit impersonal. She must still be upset about their ill-fated conversation, but Dean is tired of having to explain himself to everyone, so he just lets it go.

She does give him a small kiss on the cheek and a hushed _good luck_ before she goes through the door, flipping Charlie the bird in that loving, family way that apparently only they can get away with.

“I don’t get it,” Charlie says, taking Dean’s hand and dragging him into his bedroom. It would be a little weird if he didn’t know she was both gay and in a relationship with the love of her life, but he lets her drag him in and push him onto the bed while she rummages through his closet.

“What?” Dean asks, clueless about whatever she doesn’t get.

“Elvis, obviously,” she clarifies, and thank God because Dean would have never guessed it was about Elvis in a million years, “he basically just ran around that entire movie flirting with every woman he saw, he kissed at least half of them, and his girlfriend wasn’t bothered by it in the slightest. Give me a break. I know it was a different era and all that, but if Gilda ever flirted with other chicks, I’d have to set them all on fire.”

Dean really hopes she’s exaggerating, because he doesn’t doubt that Charlie would actually set someone ablaze if she were so inclined.

“Yikes,” he says, unsure of how to respond to something like that. Charlie picks on up on his discomfort, then tosses him a couple shirts still on their hangers.

“Try these on,” she says blandly, and then goes through his closet for pants. Dean doesn’t understand why she’s picking out his clothes, it’s not like he’s going on a real date or wanting to impress Lisa at all, but then again this could be her trying to blow off some steam.

“Jo really pissed you off, didn’t she?” Dean asks, putting on the first shirt. It’s a dark purple button up that he doesn’t even remember buying, and now that he thinks about it, he knows for sure he didn’t buy this. Ellen and Jody must be buying him clothes again and sneaking them into his closet. Tricky bastards.

Charlie scowls, unable to find a pair of pants that pleases her. “She shouldn’t have said those things.”

“They’re true,” Dean pushes, trying to gauge Charlie’s true feelings on the matter. He trusts her a lot more than he trusts Jo, and now that the topic was brought out into the open, he kind of wants Charlie’s opinion.

“It doesn’t matter if they’re true,” Charlie snaps, pulling out a pair of jeans and tossing them toward Dean. “All that matters is how you feel about it and what you’re going to do. I don’t care if that baby comes out looking nothing like you, if you say it’s your baby, then it’s your baby.”

Dean’s not really sure what to make of that, but he likes that for the first time in a while, someone is actually on his side. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she confirms, giving him another smile.

“Okay, but, let me guess – you can see Jo’s side of it, too?” Dean questions, wondering if there’s more to Charlie’s feelings on the matter. He wouldn’t blame her if she did agree with much of what Jo said. After all, Dean knows Jo is right, he just doesn’t want to have to face that truth. He just doesn’t think there’s enough to be gained by digging further into it.

“Dean,” Charlie says, suddenly serious and turning to look him square in the eye, “you might not believe this, but your side is the only side I’m looking at.”

It’s never occurred to him until just now how much he’s taken advantage of Charlie as a best friend. She’s been nothing but loyal, nothing but present and loving and determined as Hell to get Dean to see all the brighter sides of himself. It’s like having his own personal cheerleader following him around, clapping and singing _Dean! Dean! He’s our man, if he can’t do it, no one can!_

Charlie huffs, then says, “Christ, Jo has been pissing me off so much about this whole thing. A few days ago, after your incident with Cas and that asshole ex of his, she was making jokes about getting everyone those awful t-shirts. I almost punched her in the face.”

Dean has no idea what she’s talking about. “Shirts?”

“Remember when Brad Pitt left Jennifer Aniston for Angelina Jolie?” Charlie asks, dismayed when Dean shakes his head no, “okay, well it happened, and a bunch of other people and celebrities starting wearing Team Aniston or Team Jolie shirts, taking a side about an issue that was none of their goddamn business,” she bites, bitterly.

“What does that have to do with me and Jo?” Dean probes, extremely confused now.

Charlie is fuming at the memory, her cheeks tinging a slight pink that Dean rarely ever sees on her, “Jo thought it would be hilarious if we all started wearing Team Winchester or Team Novak shirts. I told her and everyone else that if I caught any of them wearing a Novak shirt, I would not hesitate to run them over with my car.”

Some days it really does feel like Charlie is his only friend left in the world. It certainly wouldn’t hurt his ego to see his friends wearing Team Winchester, but the last thing he wants is to widen the gap between him and Cas, and like Charlie said, it’s no one’s goddamn business. He can’t fault Jo for thinking it was funny, though, because nothing else ever happens in Lawrence and she’s probably just really bored.

Eventually, Dean just shrugs. “She doesn’t have a whole lot going on, Charlie. Give her a break.”

As usual, Charlie has some disagreements. “Personally, I think she’s still bitter that you didn’t want her, especially since you started seeing Cas. It’s obvious when you look at who she’s dating. Adam looks like he could be your brother, and he wasn’t exactly nice to you at your first meeting.”

Dean would very much like to derail this conversation now, not wanting to get any further into analyzing Jo’s behaviors or choice of boyfriend. It feels kind of weird gossiping about her behind her back, anyway. He strips off the purple shirt, wondering why on Earth anyone would see the color purple and think of him, and puts on the dark blue shirt instead. He doesn’t remember where this one came from, but he’s pretty sure it’s been in his closet a long time. It’s comforting, at least, knowing he’s wearing something he probably picked out himself.

Honestly, Dean would way rather just wear one of his t-shirts, because there’s no point in getting dressed up just to have a conversation with Lisa, but he knows that Charlie tends to calm down when she gets to exert some control. Letting her pick out his outfit is a small sacrifice, and a happy Charlie is much better than a pissy one.

He changes the topic, asking Charlie what she plans on buying the baby, and that not only cheers her up but excites her as well. She goes on and on about games and television shows that are so obscure, _no one_ must have ever heard of them but her, but Dean doesn’t mind. He actually kind of likes that he’s not the only one looking forward to the baby coming.

They make it to the mall and split ways, Charlie heading upstairs to visit a couple of her favorite shops while Dean stays on the main level, walking toward the little café where he agreed to meet Lisa. He feels silly wearing a button up shirt tucked into his jeans like he’s a damn Ken doll, because he sure as fuck doesn’t remember there ever being a poor, homeless, pregnant Barbie option.

Well, that thought is probably too mean. Dean needs to learn how to watch his mouth, because there are some things kids should never hear about their parent, especially from the _other_ parent. He’s not going to be one of those assholes that always talks shit about his kid’s mom.

Of course, Dean feels bad for having that thought the moment his eyes find hers in the crowded dining area. Lisa looks nice, dressed up enough that it makes Dean feel less uncomfortable. She’s wearing maternity jeans and a floral blouse, and like always, her hair and makeup look perfectly in place.

“Hi Dean,” she smiles, her eyes wide and admiring the shirt he’s got on. He doesn’t get why, until she says, “You’re wearing the shirt I got you.”

Ah, fuck. This is already starting off on the wrong foot. There’s no way he can politely explain that it was unintentional without sounding like a liar or a dick, so he just pretends she didn’t say it.

“Hey, Lisa. How are you feeling?” Dean asks, gesturing to her swollen middle. Hopefully that can get their conversation on the right track.

She sips on her drink, which smells suspiciously like coffee, and he wonders if that’s something pregnant women are even allowed to drink. He knows babies and kids, but he’s pretty much ignorant when it comes to pregnancy.

“He’s kicking me constantly. Sometimes his foot will slip up into my rib cage, and let me tell you, it is not pleasant,” she giggles, and Dean can tell she’s trying to be flirty. He’s about to say something else when he realizes that Lisa specifically said ‘he’.

“It’s a boy?” he asks, leaning forward and getting and eyeful of the way her shirt fits tightly over her belly.

“Oh, yeah, I’m sorry. I couldn’t wait anymore, so I asked the doctor. They can’t know for certain, but they said it looks like a little boy,” she explains, leaning forward too. Dean realizes that their posture is more intimate than he would like, so he leans back. She frowns.

“That’s great,” Dean smiles, and it’s completely genuine. He would have been happy with either gender, but at least now it will make shopping for the baby much easier. The waitress comes by and takes Dean’s order, and though he contemplated getting something to eat, he knows he should focus on talking and having a mouth full of food would impede that. He orders a Coke and nothing else, returning to Lisa’s gaze when she leaves.

Lisa shifts awkwardly in her chair, giving Dean a strange look. “So…did you think about what I said? About us being a family?”

“Yeah, Lisa, I did,” he starts, hoping that what he’s about to say won’t hurt her too deeply, “but as much as I like the idea of the three us being together, it’s just not going to work. I’m in love with Cas, he’s the one I want to be with.”

She bites on her lip, looking away for a moment before taking a deep breath. She’s obviously unhappy, like Dean knew she would be, but he does feel better for saying it. Lisa starts tearing up, which is kind of a heartbreaking sight, but then she waves it off like it’s nothing. “Hormones,” she says, struggling to get the word out around the lump in her throat.

“I’m sorry,” Dean continues, trying to soften the blow, “I really want to be a part of the baby’s life, and yours. I’m always going to be here for you two, no matter what. I’m, uh…kind of excited to be a dad, actually.”

Lisa nods, patting away a stray tear with her napkin. “I figured that’s how it would be. Can’t blame a girl for wishing, though,” she intones.

“When is the due date, again?” Dean asks, making a futile attempt to redirect the conversation for a second time. He knew this would be awkward, but he didn’t expect that he would be dancing around her feelings so carefully.

The waitress is back with Dean’s Coke, setting it in front of him with a straw and a napkin. He looks up to give her an appreciative smile, but she’s already gone. “August eighth,” Lisa replies, taking another sip of her drink and caressing her belly. “Can I ask you something?”

There’s a million things she could ask, but he figures it’s nothing too bad. “Sure.”

“I thought Cas broke up with you? I mean, I know you love him, but you guys aren’t together anymore, right? He obviously doesn’t love you back.”

One of these days, Dean will learn that when a person asks if they can ask you something, it is literally never a good question. Not in his experience, anyway.

“Lisa…it’s complicated. He does love me, but you showing up kind of threw a wrench in the works. You can love someone and not be with them. Sound familiar?” Dean doesn’t mean for the last part to come off so rudely, but surely she must see the irony in her question. After all, Lisa’s entire plea centered on the fact that she still loved him even though she ended things in the best interest of their child. Not even Lisa can be that dense.

She seems to get the picture, but still has that look on her face that means there’s more to her question. “Okay, I get that, but if you two aren’t together anymore, what’s so wrong with being with me?”

Dean wants to explain that they’re not actually broken up, that they’re just on a painfully long ‘break’ and he’s still waiting to hear whether or not Cas wants him anymore, but he doesn’t think it will actually help get the message across. The truth is that it doesn’t matter, even if Cas decides he never wants to see Dean again, that doesn’t mean he’s going to treat Lisa like a consolation prize and move in with her.

“Look, Lisa, I didn’t want to have to say this, but after what happened between us, I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to be together,” he says, lowering his voice so others don’t hear, so he doesn’t end up embarrassing her.

“What do you mean?”

Ugh, Dean so does not want to be having this conversation right now.

“It means that even though I loved you very much, and even though we’re having a child together, I can’t just forget what you did. I could never trust you, and I would always be worrying that one day you’ll just up and leave. I’m going to be the best dad I can, and I’ll be your –”

All at once, a sudden realization crashes down on him like a suffocating avalanche, crushing the air out of his lungs. Isn’t that exactly what Cas had said to him a few days ago? Shit, it’s pretty much _exactly_ what Cas said, and now he gets it. Dean was a monumental ass hat, and Cas needs time to figure out if it’s something he can get over. Fuck. He understood it before, but now he _really_ understands, and the parallel feels too big to ignore.

If Lisa had shown up two weeks after she inexplicably left, apologies on her lips and begging for forgiveness, Dean would have done the exact same thing that Cas had done to him. Dean would have been hurt, confused, unsure of how to proceed. He wouldn’t have been able to be so close to her, touching her and hearing her profess her love without losing control and taking her right there on the floor. Shit, the only reason it didn’t happen between him and Lisa that way is because he had half a year to get over her and fell in love with someone else.

Dean would have felt terrible, guilty, sick to his core for losing control and sleeping with her. He would have had to either lie, pretending like he was okay with being back together, or he’d have to be honest and tell her that he needed time to think about it.

Cas isn’t a liar. He’s an honest guy, so of course he was honest with Dean despite their awkward predicament.

Now all Dean can think about is what a hard time Cas must be going through.

Lisa clears her throat. Dean’s eyes snap back to attention, focusing on an angry Lisa. She’s scowling, and her arms are crossed and resting on her belly. “Your…?”

“What?” Dean asks, not understanding what she’s prompting.

“You said you were going to be the best dad you could, and that you would be my…something, then randomly started staring off into space for like, a full minute,” she clarifies, frustrated, a hint of malice in her voice.

“Oh, right,” Dean laughs inelegantly, trying to lighten the mood. “I was saying I would always be your friend. I mean it, I’m here for you, and I want to work together when it comes to our son.”

Lisa nods minutely, her mood completely soured. Dean’s heart aches for her, it really does, but this way is for the best and eventually she will understand that. If she doesn’t, then there’s still nothing Dean can do about that. He loves Cas, plain and simple.

“So…if we’re not going to be together, then how exactly are we going to raise this kid?”

Good question.

“Actually, that’s what I was hoping to talk to you about. I’d like to figure out a custody arrangement, and what your general plans are for work and housing and stuff,” Dean says, happier now that the conversation is finally going where he wants it to.

But Lisa just keeps glowering, wearing her feelings on her sleeve. “Work and housing and stuff?” She says, her tone dripping with indignation and disbelief.

“Well, yeah,” Dean hesitates, confused, wondering what has her so upset.

“Bobby hired me as a receptionist at the garage. I’m living in his spare bedroom. Quite frankly, I thought those things would be temporary. So, _sorry_ , I don’t exactly know what I’m going to do now,” she growls, her tears threatening to reappear.

Dean wonders for a brief moment if he should offer her a place to stay. It would be weird living with her, sure, but he feels guilty knowing that she’s living off of Bobby’s mercy and doesn’t even have a game plan. On the other hand, inviting her to stay in his second room could lead to potential consequences that he wants no part of, including Lisa getting the wrong idea or never leaving.

And, truth be told, Lisa is a grown woman and has been pregnant for a while now. He doesn’t know where she’s been living or what she’s been doing, but seriously, she should have at least had a job or her own place or anything that could have ensured the safety of her and the baby. The thought blindsides Dean with a bout of unease, making him feel used and lied to. Jo’s theories are starting to look pretty accurate.

Lisa’s phone chirps, and she checks it quickly. Her face wars with several different emotions, none of them good, and then shoves her phone in her purse.

“I’ve got to go,” She says, standing with some difficulty and stretching her back. “We’ll talk more about this later, okay?”

She doesn’t give Dean a chance to respond, walking out of the café without looking back. Well, _waddling_ is a more apt description. Oh, and she left him with the bill.

Now Dean is just pissed.  He’s been waiting for days to have this talk with her, and all they managed was a short conversation about how he’s not interested in shacking up with her again. He could have easily just told her that over the damn phone. Time is running out, the baby – no, his son – will be here at the end of the summer and he’s no closer to figuring out what the fuck is going on.

Dean stays at the table until the waitress returns and takes his card, and he’s feeling grateful that all Lisa ordered was a small decaf coffee. He’s getting irritated with how Lisa seems to be handling everything, too. She walks back into his life, drops a bomb on him, and now apparently refuses to discuss anything that doesn’t involve taking her back. They were supposed to get shit accomplished here, he was supposed to leave this lunch feeling satisfied with answers, now he’s left wondering who texted her and why she had to leave so suddenly.

Fuck it. Dean knows it’s a boy now, so that’s something. Charlie can help him pick out all the things that babies need and he can just focus on that.

It does make him feel strange, though, knowing he raised a little boy into a man once already, but that he still has no idea what kind of supplies exist out there to help raise them. Dean remembers rocking Sammy to sleep while he cried in his car seat, using his foot to keep the seat in motion while he laid on the floor beside him, their dad passed out drunk on the single motel bed. He remembers the night he started chewing Sammy’s food for him like a mother bird, because Sam was too little to properly chew it himself and they never had any soft baby foods around. Dean had given his little brother a piece of pepperoni off his pizza, and Sammy choked on it, turning blue. It’s a miracle his brother didn’t die, coughing it up when Dean smacked on his back hard enough, but it was a long time before Sam ate anything that wasn’t partially digested by Dean first.

Those were the hardest years for Dean, because the wounds of his mother’s passing were still fresh and John couldn’t be bothered to take care of Sam at all. Not only was Dean a small child himself, but he had no concept of parenting or how it should have been done. He wonders what taking care of a baby will be like when he actually has the right tools, when he knows what he’s doing and doesn’t have to try to invent crude replacements for things that already exist. It sure as Hell would have been convenient to have one of those fancy baby food blender things back then.

Dean texts Charlie, and they meet upstairs where he last left her. Unsurprisingly, she already has a bag of purchased goodies hanging on her arm and a suspicious smile on her face. Before Dean can tell her what a colossal waste his lunch with Lisa turned out to be, Charlie reaches into the bag and pulls out a large t-shirt and matching onesie.

“Look!” Charlie exclaims, shoving them into Dean’s face with far too much vigor, “aren’t they adorable?”

Dean looks at the shirt and the onesie, not entirely sure about what he’s seeing. It pretty much looks like a cat face, or something, and it doesn’t take long for Charlie to realize that Dean is confused.

“Is that a cat?” Dean asks, hesitantly, afraid to insult Charlie’s choice in clothing.

“Are you kidding me? What is wrong with you?” She looks at the clothes and then back to Dean, her jaw dropping further with every passing second. “It’s Totoro! I swear, this is why your baby needs me.”

“What the fuck is a Totoro?”

Charlie responds by shoving the clothes back into the bag, shaking her head incredulously. She ignores his question, and though Dean is still really confused and has no idea what Charlie plans to dress his son in, he lets her gracefully change the subject by asking how their lunch went.

“It was pointless. Lisa basically told me it’s a boy, and nothing else. She’s pissed I won’t take her back and she didn’t want to discuss the other details, I guess,” Dean explains, trying not to let his anger show. He really wishes they could have at least discussed how often Dean will get to have the baby stay at his house, because that will determine how much stuff he should buy.

“That sucks,” Charlie groans, passing the bag off to Dean so he’ll carry it for her. “But hey! That means we get to buy cute boy stuff. And, lucky enough for Charlie Junior, he’ll be stylish in his Totoro onesie.”

“Charlie Junior?”

“Obviously that’s the only suitable name for him,” she intones, smirking when Dean rolls his eyes. He hasn’t even started thinking about baby names, or asked Lisa what names she likes or if she has a name picked out yet. Dean doesn’t care too much about any name in particular, anyway.

“I’ll let her know you think so,” Dean says, draping his arm over her shoulder.

They walk around the mall for nearly an hour with minimal success. Charlie picked out more clothes, most of them donning some kind of quote or logo that he barely recognizes but that she insists will make him a superior human being. Dean didn’t find very much that jumped off the shelves at him, settling for the basics like a few boxes of diapers and wipes, plus hats and socks and a swaddling blanket. Charlie called him _boring_ with an exaggerated sigh no less than twelve times, but Dean remembers exactly how often Sam threw up and pooped all over his clothes and himself. Whatever nifty logo she claimed would be awesome for his son to wear, he had to remind her that they’ll all eventually look the same when they’re covered in stains.

The final stop the two of them make is inside a ridiculously large baby supercenter. Dean didn’t pay attention to the store’s name, but all of the items for sale look way out of his price range and he’s not sure why Charlie pulled him in here.

“You need to get a crib,” Charlie says, answering his unspoken question, taking his hand and dragging him to the back of the store.

The only cribs Dean had ever seen in person before were the ones available at some of the motels they stayed at: small, white, ugly metal things with wheels and a plastic mattress. The cribs here are nothing like what he’s used to, and some of them are actually rather stunning. Oversized, solid wood cribs line the back of the store, all in varying shades from dark to cherry to white. He’s impressed by the level of detail carved into every crib, in awe of the intricate little designs webbing along the posts and headboards.

Charlie is admiring one crib in particular. It’s very dark with a hint of red in the grain – rosewood, according to the sign – and far more opulent than Dean could ever afford. Rather than the typical vertical slats, the sides are lined with latticed wood, whittled into floral vines that wreath around a central, leafy coronet.

It’s beautiful, but more girly and fancy than anything he’d want to put his son to sleep in. He traces his fingers along the engraved posts, admiring the glossy shine of the rosewood. Charlie’s eyes are bright and focused, her fingertips appreciating the woodwork as well.

“This is intense,” she breathes, her eyes darting toward the sign to look for a price. Dean doesn’t need to see the price tag to know he can’t afford it, even if it was something he would actually want to buy. “Whoa, it’s a thousand bucks.”

“Yeah, not interested,” Dean says, scanning the room for other cribs that look more feasible. “This one’s kind of ridiculous, don’t you think?”

Charlie shakes her head. “This is the coolest bed I have ever seen. I almost want it for myself.”

Dean laughs. “You’re a chick, of course you like it. I’m having a son, remember? Not an heir to the royal throne.”

“Let me buy this for you, please?” Charlie begs, batting those damn lashes at him again. Dean nearly swallows his tongue at the thought, wondering why in God’s name she would ever spend that much money on a crib, especially when it’s not even her own kid.

“Uh, no,” Dean scoffs, cringing at the idea of owning such an lavish piece of furniture that his kid is just going to grow out of anyway. “I’m sure Walmart has a crib that’s a little more my style…and in my budget.”

“Hey!” Charlie cries out, a Cheshire smile blooming on her face. She playfully smacks Dean on the chest, bouncing on her toes with unabashed excitement. “You should build the crib!”

For the first time all day, Charlie actually has an idea that Dean likes.

“Really?”

“Yes! And let me pay for the supplies and stuff, okay?”

Dean looks at Charlie, an apprehensive glance at first to gauge her intent, but it quickly melts into something more heartfelt. She’s flashing the same broad smile she has been for most of the day, goofy and warm and genuine, sending wisps of love and appreciation over the chaffed emotions he’s been harboring for the last few days. He’d forgotten what it was like to enjoy days like these, to enjoy friendships and let the world’s worries wash away.

He loved building his dining table, but sort of forgot about continuing on with that particular hobby in the midst of life raining down on him. He forgot that Cas isn’t the only one who could bring him joy, who could remind him that he’s worth more than the doormat he’s allowed himself to be.

Of course, Charlie could just be manipulating her way into the baby’s life so she can ensure his first words are something like _Totomo,_ or whatever the fuck she said.

Dean’s okay with that.

“Fine,” he relents with a grin, excited at the idea of building his son a crib. He’ll have to talk to Lisa about what the baby’s name is going to be, so he can engrave it into the wood, too.

He and Charlie talk about the crib the entire way home from the mall, discussing the details about what he’ll need and what it will probably cost. Since Dean doesn’t know very much about cribs, he’ll have to do the research to make sure he follows all the safety laws and that it doesn’t end up collapsing with his little boy inside of it. That thought sends a bolt of panic and regret down his spine, worried that he’ll fuck up the crib and his child will die because of it, but Charlie changes his mind.

“You can build it solid and sturdy, Dean. You should trust yourself more than some manufacturer that doesn’t actually care about your baby,” she said, and she was right.

Yeah, he likes the sound of that. Dean can do this, and he can do it well.

He pulls up in front of Charlie’s place, reluctant to let her go for the night. He’s been leaning on her a lot lately, using her to caulk the cracks that threatened to split him in half, to distract himself from the fact that Cas lives just down the street, and she’s been taking it like a true champ. There’s something effortless about the way he and Charlie move around each other, a simple flow that eases through them whenever they’re close enough, and he’s truly happy that he didn’t permanently fuck up anything between them.

She leaves her bags of purchased goods on the seat, instructing Dean to hang up the clothes in the baby’s closet right away. He promises her he will.

“You’re going to be a good dad, Dean,” she assures, giving him a final wink before hopping out of the Impala. He’s tempted to stop her, to invite her over for the night so he can keep the good feelings going, but she’s already spent so much time with him the last couple of days that he’s too embarrassed to ask. He lets her leave without pouting or acting too desperately lonely, watching her disappear into her apartment.

Dean has been doing relatively okay, but the nights have been hard and being alone has been worse. He’s alright, he knows he can make it through the night without incident, he’s just tired of being battered and bruised by his unrelenting thoughts.

When he makes it home, he does feel a small sense of relief. There’s a certain peacefulness about quiet and solitude, and if he can figure out how to drown out the cacophony in his head without smoking or drinking, then he’ll pretty much be set for life.

Unfortunately, he _hasn’t_ figured out that particular secret life has managed to keep hidden from him, so he drops the bags of baby stuff onto the dining table and pours himself a glass of whiskey on the rocks.

He sips on it for a moment, rolling a crushed piece of ice over his tongue, then wanders into the spare bedroom that used to be John’s. It’s empty now, still fairly small, but Dean thinks he can turn it into a good room for the baby. He’ll build the crib, and he’ll start looking for used furniture that he can fix up and turn into something suitable for a little boy. It’s exciting and scary and wonderful and terrifying – it’s something he never realized he would want so much, so deeply.

Dean knows he hasn’t had a lot of time to adjust, he hasn’t had much time to really think about everything a child means, but the initial shock has worn off and he’s not a half-way sort of guy. He’s going to be there as often as Lisa will let him, he’s going to make sure that boy knows his father loves him, and he’ll be there for all the milestones. Dean might not know exactly what to do, he’ll make mistakes and need all the help he can get, but he’ll never be the kind of dad his own father was. He’ll never be John Winchester.

Thinking about the baby and Lisa makes the glass in his hand seem heavier, colder. Guilt trickles in slowly with every sip of whiskey, reminding him of the reasons why he quit the bar and why he needs to quit drinking altogether. He can’t be a great dad if he’s drunk, can’t hold his son if one hand is already holding something else.

Dean walks back into the kitchen, barely feeling the slight tingle of a buzz as he pours the rest of the whiskey down the sink. He hates wasting money, but he hates the idea of turning into his father even more.

He thinks of Lisa, wondering what she’s doing right now, where she’s going to end up or if they’ll ever have a real conversation about how they’re going to raise their child together. The guilt he sipped on earlier swells in his gut and bloats him with nagging fear. What kind of dad is he, if he lets the mother of his child live in Bobby’s guest room? What if something happens, or she goes into labor, and Dean’s not around to know about it?

Can he really let her and the baby go home to Bobby’s after they leave the hospital?

Dean feels sick thinking about it, worrying that he’ll be a shitty father after all if he can’t even make sure Lisa and the baby are safe and nearby. He doesn’t know what to do about it, though. He doesn’t know what other people do in these situations, or if there’s even a right answer at all. He tries to think about what Cas would do if he were in Dean’s shoes, if he had knocked up an ex and she showed up homeless and ready to pop.

Cas is far more of an honorable guy than Dean will ever be, always sacrificing his own comfort for the sake of others and giving what he can. Even when Cas was certain he would die from it, he stayed in gross motel rooms and ate delivery food, he put up with Sam and Ruby and picked Dean back up every time he tripped over another bout of self-loathing. And, if Bobby was telling the truth, Cas even gave Lisa a ride home after Dean shoved him away and left them both there outside the bar.

It’s not just Cas he thinks about, either. Dean looks at all the relationships in his life, from Charlie to Jody to Ellen, and it seems like everyone he knows has had to sacrifice something for Dean’s sake, has had to do something hard or unpleasant or scary just so that Dean wouldn’t have to be alone, wouldn’t have to drown in his sorrow.

And yet Dean can’t seem to put aside his own hang-ups for Lisa’s sake, he can’t be a better father to his unborn son who doesn’t deserve the cold shoulder.

He can remedy that, though.

Dean still has the key he had made for Cas, and though it hurts to imagine giving it to anyone else, he knows what he needs to do to start making things right. He can let Lisa move in to the spare bedroom, just until she gets a better job or finds her own place, but at least that way he’ll know they’re safe. He did this to Lisa, after all - he got her pregnant and she’s been doing most of the work with that so far, so the least he can do is return the favor and give her a roof over her head.

He’s not going to like living with her, it will be strange and awkward and probably a little difficult, but it’s only temporary and it’s what everyone else would do. Hell, it’s exactly what Bobby is already doing, and he’s not even the one who should be responsible for her.

He hopes Cas will be proud of him too. Maybe Cas will see that Dean can change, that he can be better and be an adult and make things work.

Dean runs upstairs and grabs the key, pulling it out of the box. He feels the cool metal against his palm, hesitating a moment before taking a deep breath and reminding himself why this is necessary. He’s not going to give it to her like a damn present, it’s not going to be a big deal, he’s just going to hand it over and tell her not to lose it. He’ll call Lisa in the morning and have Bobby help her bring everything over. Not that she has very much.

Dean knows there’s no point in dwelling on it, but his heart aches every time he thinks about Cas for too long. He can’t help but wonder if Cas really will be impressed, if it will sway his mind in the direction Dean wants it to go, or if he’s already lost Cas and just doesn’t know it yet. God, he hopes not. Dean knows he can be good, he can be someone worthy of Cas if he just tries hard enough, and being a better person to Lisa is the first step in that direction.

There hasn’t been any contact between him and Cas since the morning Balthazar punched him in the face and they had that impromptu romp on the floor. Dean wants to give Cas all the space he needs, but he can’t stop thinking about what must be going through Cas’ mind, can’t help the curiosity that keeps him up at night. Dean wonders what Cas is thinking about, what he’s weighing in his mind, what the pros and cons list is looking like right now and what the chances are of there being more on the good side than bad. He wonders how Cas sees him, and how that view will change and evolve until a decision is finally made. _Please_ , he prays, to no deity in particular, _let me be good enough_.

In a selfish attempt to tip the scales in his favor, Dean grabs a pen and a post-it note. He wants to leave Cas alone, he doesn’t want to pressure him, but he thinks it will be okay to leave a love note in his mailbox. That’s what Cas did, anyway, when Dean was valiantly aiming for death by alcohol.

There’s not much Dean can say that isn’t a plea or an apology, so he settles on vague encouragement and empathy. He writes simply and humbly, not one to be eloquent with words, hoping it’s enough to remind Cas that he’s still loved.

 

**Cas,**

**You’re probably having a hard time, an even harder time than me. I’m not upset about what happened. I understand now, and it’s alright. I just want you to be happy, okay?**

**\--D**

 

He makes the quick walk down the street and drops it in Cas’ mailbox, remembering what happened the last time he walked here and how it felt to see Balthazar through the window. Dean doesn’t want to see that again, he doesn’t want to have to worry that someone else is filling that emptied place in Cas’ heart.

Dean doesn’t want to see it, but he looks up anyway at the light filtering through the thin curtain, hoping to catch a silhouette in the dimmed kitchen. He stands there for a few minutes, waiting, feeling more and more ridiculous with each passing second, until he gives up and turns around, going back home.

He tries not to let Balthazar’s car in the driveway bother him. He tries not to think about it while he undresses or when he showers. He tries not to think about it as he lays in bed, staring into nothing and counting his heartbeats like sheep.

But when he finally falls asleep, he can still see that damn car in his dreams, chasing him down until he’s nothing more than a red stain on the pavement.


	23. Chapter 23

Dean is pissed, and Bobby is laughing at him.

These are not unrelated facts.

“She ain’t livin’ with me outta the kindness of my heart, jackass,” Bobby laughs, adjusting the grimy cap on his head, “I’m trying to figure out what she’s up to. Don’t put your neck under the guillotine just yet.”

This is what Dean gets for trying to be a good guy. “What she’s up to?”

“You ain’t that dumb, kid,” Bobby says, rolling his eyes. Dean continues to stare at him, confused, one brow lifted in quiet expectation. “Or are you?”

Dean folds his arms over his chest and shifts his weight to his left leg, indicating that yes, apparently he’s that dumb. He knows better than to just assume the baby is his, but he has a hard time wrapping his melon around the fact that everyone else thinks there’s something more devious going on.

“Gimme a break, Dean. Even Johnny knew he was fiddlin’ against the Devil,” Bobby snorts, still laughing at Dean’s expense.

Dean just shakes his head, “That’s a terrible metaphor. What the fuck does that even mean?”

“Ain’t you ever listen to Charlie Daniels?” Bobby leans back in his office chair, sizing Dean up with one of those fatherly looks he hasn’t seen in a while. “Nevermind. Just get your ass back to work, and if I catch you givin’ that key to Lisa, you’re fired.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Dean groans, glaring at Bobby like an insubordinate child.

There’s a faint giggling just outside of the office door, accompanied by an insistent shushing, and Dean’s about had enough. It’s one thing to be scolded, but having an audience listen in is even worse. Lisa works here now, so the last thing he needs is to be gossiped about around the water cooler.

Bobby tilts his head toward the door. Dean steps quietly over, not wanting their little eavesdroppers to hear him, then grips the knob and swings the door open as fast as he can.

Jo falls over onto the carpet, shrieking, and Charlie jumps back and lands square on her ass. Jo had been leaning on the door, her ear pressed hard against the wood, but Charlie had the sense to simply crouch and balance on her heels. Bobby is really laughing now, echoing barrel-chested hoots at Jo’s bright red, scowling face. She picks herself up and storms out without a word, but Charlie doesn’t leave. She stands upright, cloaking herself in false bravery as she enters Bobby’s office and closes the door behind her.

“What’s Jo doing here?” Bobby asks, not bothered in the slightest by what just happened.

Charlie purses her lips and fidgets for a moment, a tell-tale indicator that she’s considering lying, but changes her mind with the shrug of her shoulders. “She wanted to see if Lisa was really working here.”

Bobby huffs and pulls off his cap, rubbing a hand through what little hair is left on his head. “Tell her to get out of my garage, unless she plans on fixin’ up some cars.”

“Okay, I will,” she assures, then turns her attention to Dean. “But first, you and I need to talk.”

Dean’s getting real fucking tired of this. “For chrissakes, Charlie, what?”

Without missing a beat, Charlie takes a step closer and wags her finger at him, “That’s Cas’ key.”

Well if he wasn’t pissed before, he sure the fuck is now. Charlie was the only one who knew that Dean made the key for Cas, that he had planned on asking Cas to move in with him, a fact that he specifically left out when mentioning the key to Bobby. He didn’t want anyone to know, especially not now that he and Cas are taking a break, so when Dean catches the surprise spreading all over Bobby’s face, it takes mustering all of his willpower to stop himself from immediately denying it.

That doesn’t mean he’s ready to actually admit out loud, though.

Bobby gets that discomforted look of his, a mixture of annoyance of impatience at Dean’s never-ending relationship troubles, no doubt. There’s just this certain way that Bobby can communicate his unspoken thoughts that resonates deeply inside Dean, like he’s hearing the echoes of John and Mary through the myriad of expressions found on Bobby’s face. It’s unsettling more than it is helpful, mostly because Dean has never been very good with following directions, even if his brother regards him as the dutiful soldier Dean knows he’s not.

Silence rolls through Bobby’s office like a thick fog, making it harder to breathe, but there’s no way in Hades that Dean’s going to clear the air first.

Charlie doesn’t seem to notice or care that she outed Dean’s secret in front of Bobby, because when she speaks again, it’s only to scold Dean further. “The only person getting that key is Cas.”

Right, like Charlie’s the damn boss of him.

Dean shakes his head, irritated, “For fuck’s sake, I thought you guys would be proud of me.”

It’s not exactly a question, but the way Dean said it definitely invited them to offer him some explanation. He doesn’t understand why everyone is so adamantly against this, or why he’s the only one who is giving Lisa the benefit of the doubt.

He also doesn’t get why everyone else cares so fucking much.

Bobby offers his two cents first. “Always proud of you, kid, but movin’ Lisa in to your home ain’t worth the brownie points.”

“Yeah,” Charlie agrees, resounding Bobby’s sentiments, “it’s a bad idea.”

“How do you know?” Dean mumbles, feeling every inch the fool as his face reddens to accompany his terrible retort. Christ, he needs to work on his quips.

“When I said that key belongs to Cas, I didn’t just mean in the literal sense, Dean,” Charlie starts, pulling one of the extra chairs from against the wall so she can sit down, “think of it as a symbol, okay? That key is your future, your entire life. The person you give it to will determine which road your life takes, and _Lisa_ is not the direction you want to be heading.”

The advice sounds sage enough, but Dean’s about had it with all the metaphors being thrown around here. “It wouldn’t be permanent, Charlie. Just until she gets her own place, and only so I can be there in case something happens. What if she goes into labor or something, and I’m not there?”

“Then I’d give you a call, idgit.” Bobby drawls, irked. Apparently Dean isn’t picking up on the memo as fast as everyone else would like.

“Okay, but what kind of dad does that make me? I want to do things right, guys. I want to be good for my kid,” Dean manages to say despite the embarrassing rush of blood coloring his cheeks. He doesn’t know why he’s so reluctant to speak the truth, to say what’s on his mind and why this is important to him. Bobby and Charlie both look at him like he just auditioned for a soap opera.

“ _If_ it’s your kid,” Bobby grunts, not breaking his steady eye contact. It hurts more when it comes from Bobby’s mouth, that ugly fine print on the bottom of Dean’s parenting contract. He’s tired of being reminded that not everyone thinks Lisa was being faithful, not just because it sews a bright scarlet ‘A’ on Lisa’s forehead, but because it also means people are so easily accepting of the idea that Dean wasn’t good enough to keep her interested.

That’s why people cheat, right? That’s why cowards crawl behind their lover’s trusting backs and pour their treasure into foreign laps. Dean tried so hard to be good for Lisa, to make their rocky relationship work despite the perpetual obstacle course they were on, but he supposes that doesn’t really matter in the end. Trying hard doesn’t negate the fact that they were, in fact, braving a shaky terrain that neither of them were equipped to handle.

Dean knows he’s not the easiest guy to be with, that he’s five pounds of trouble in a two pound bag, but thinking about Lisa cheating on him waters that seed of horror in his gut. There’s nothing he can do about Lisa at this point, but Cas is still cordially bunking with his faultless ex-boyfriend while Dean has no choice but to wait it out.

“And if it isn’t mine? Then what?” Dean challenges, unimpressed that no one has thought to offer a post-scandal scenario. If everyone is so stalwart about Lisa being a big dirty hooker, then they damn well better have some input on how Dean’s supposed to handle that.

“You go on with your life. You don’t raise some deadbeat’s kid,” Bobby offers, tonelessly, as if it’s so obvious he thinks he shouldn’t have to explain it.

And maybe that’s what bothers Dean the most about all this. Everyone seems to think that the baby’s only value comes from whether or not it’s Dean’s progeny, like it doesn’t matter what happens to Lisa and the baby if that possible truth sprouts its ugly head. Dean doesn’t get how everyone can be so cold and cruel to a pregnant woman, or how any of them would be able to sleep at night knowing they threw her out on her ass when she had no place else to go.

That unborn child is innocent, too. He doesn’t deserve to be born into a world where his mom is unable to take care of him and no one else is willing to lend a hand. That’s not something Dean wants to be a part of.

“Maybe I don’t care if it’s mine,” Dean says, cautious with his words, “you ever think of that?”

Bobby’s eyes bug out of his skull with a slow shake of his head. Charlie’s just as dumbfounded, gawking at Dean like he’s speaking in tongues and convulsing on the floor.

“Dean…are you, I mean…” Charlie wages a ten second war with her vocabulary, finally settling on, “are you really so desperate for a kid, that you’d let Lisa use you like that?”

Dean just glares at her, imagining for a moment how awesome it would be if Charlie just spontaneously combusted right now. Bobby doesn’t add anything, but he does push the knife further into Dean’s back with, “she’s got a point.”

“I’m not desperate,” Dean growls, standing his ground despite how quickly it seems to be dissolving beneath him.

“Then why are you letting her do this to you? Look at what she’s done in the short time she’s been back,” Charlie pushes, forcing reality down his throat. Dean doesn’t want to hear it, he doesn’t want to think about Lisa leaving again and taking all the possibilities away with her.

Dean’s brain also refuses to follow directions, because now it’s flitting through a series of melancholic images that force him to consider what Charlie is saying, what Bobby is conveying with the set of his eyes and mouth.

Things had been so good with Cas, hadn’t they? Better than ever, really, just like one of Cas’ sappy romance movies he loves so much. Dean’s life wasn’t perfect, he didn’t have everything he wanted, but then again no one ever really does. It was good though, and it was working, and he knew without a doubt that he wanted it to last forever.

Still knows. Still does.

But then Lisa paraded in, wearing all that red and begging shamelessly for a second chance. She didn’t care that Dean was obviously on a date, didn’t bother softening the blow of surprise parenthood.

Dean’s been giving her a break, though, because he knows that pregnancy can make women all kinds of crazy, but maybe he’s been relying on that excuse too much. It’s not like Dean has any real desire to live with Lisa, though. That’s just an unfortunate byproduct of what he’s really trying to accomplish, which is being a worthy father.

“Fine,” Dean murmurs, his lips barely moving. He tries to ignore the blossoming relief in his heart - the part of him that hated the whole idea to begin with is rejoicing and glad for the reason not to move her in.

There’s a bigger part of him, though, hidden somewhere deep and entwined with soul, that hates himself for not being more, not being better. It doesn’t feel like much of a legacy to leave his son, there’s no warming tale he’ll get to relate to that little boy when he’s older and asking about his infancy. Dean will always be that selfish guy who let his child’s mom struggle alone and overlooked.

It’s not the end of the world though, and Dean reminds himself that even if he’s skeptical of most of the world, he can trust Charlie and Bobby. At least, he thinks he can. There’s no justifiable reason for them to lead him astray, and if he can give Lisa the benefit of the doubt, he should probably extend the same courtesy to the people who are more like family than friends.

Dean pushes past Charlie and goes back out into the garage, keeping his head low and his feelings vacuum-sealed tight ( _for freshness, Mary used to say_ ) because Lisa is at the front desk and eyeing him as he walks by. It’s weird having her here, especially since she doesn’t know a damn thing about cars, but mostly because Dean gets that weird, constant sensation that he’s being watched now. He’s not used to it, not after years spent mastering the art of blending in, but it’s not surprising that Lisa has him pinned under her gaze like an insect on a mounting board.

She’s always had that certain intensity, with the charming appeal of a car salesman working for commission. Dean remembers in their early days how much he enjoyed it, how much he liked feeling worthy of acquisition, how persistently she hunted him and wrangled him in her snare.

Now, though, he finds that it’s less pleasant than it used to be. It’s taken on a new form, his perspective has changed, and the way Lisa regards him as a commodity makes him feel more like a gently-used toy on a Goodwill shelf than a prize to be won. It feels more manipulative this time, more urgent and laced with guilt and regret.

The smaller, relieved part of him really starts to bloom, and by the time Dean’s finished with a couple more cars, he’s feeling pretty damn good about not having her move in.

Dean is whistling to himself, a lazy version of one of his favorite Zeppelin songs – _oh darlin’ darlin’ darlin’, walk a while with me_ – when someone clears their throat nearby and interrupts his focus. He knows it’s Lisa without even looking, he’d recognize that annoying throat noise anywhere, but he doesn’t bother stopping what he’s doing to see what she wants. Dean’s got his hands full of an ’87 Cherokee, and unless she’s got a hot apple pie in her hands, he’s not interested.

Dean doesn’t smell pie, so he tightens the clamp around the radiator hose and tries to cut the other end to fit. They didn’t have the right part in stock, but the poor guy is just passing through and needs to get back on the road, so Dean found some old hoses and PVC pipe to try and jerry-rig it into working condition long enough for the guy to get to a bigger city.

Lisa clears her throat again, and Jesus it’s annoying. It’s a damn good thing Dean has smart friends because there’s no way he could put up with hearing that noise on a regular basis.

“What’s up?” Dean asks, not looking up. He figures it will be over sooner if he acts disinterested, but he’s also excited for the chance to passive-aggressively get back at her for their wasteful, uninformative lunch at the mall.

“You have a visitor,” Lisa says, blandly, like she’s bored with the English language. She did this earlier today, first thing in the morning, as a way to get Dean to feel their baby kicking. It was cute, and getting to feel his son kick his hand through Lisa’s stretch-marked belly was both humbling and surreal, but he’s feeling kind of sick about being around Lisa right now and isn’t in the mood to be touching her.

Dean doesn’t really want to miss out on his son kicking, though, so it’s a bit of a toss-up. He’s missed out on so much already, nearly the entire pregnancy and all the ultrasounds and everything else that comes with creating a new life, but he can’t stop thinking about what Charlie said. It’s messing with his head, making him wonder if it’s really his son, wonder if Lisa’s laughing it up behind his back about how easily Dean was fooled.

It’s probably for the best if Dean refrains from touching Lisa until he can sort out his thoughts again, until he can get over the accusations thrown at him in Bobby’s office, so he just shakes his head and says, “Not now, Lisa, I’m kind of busy.”

Dean expects some kind of emotional reaction, but it never comes. Instead, her voice actually seems a little lighter, almost happier, when she replies, “I’ll just tell him you’re too busy for him, then.”

Okay, seriously? He knows the kid isn’t born yet, but it seems like such a rude thing to say. What kind of mom is so selfish that she’d actually say something like that to her kid? It’s not like the baby’s never going to kick again. What a bitch.

“Whatever,” Dean says, not wanting to start a fight. With every passing minute, he’s more and more thankful that his friends stopped him from handing over the key to Lisa today. The more he interacts with her, the more he realizes that living with her would be the equivalent to living in the seventh circle of Hell. Dean never thought it would be fun or easy, and living with her wasn’t the point, but he’s seeing now how the consequences would quickly outweigh the benefits.

From the corner of his eye, Dean sees Lisa shrug her shoulders with a smile and waddle off in the direction of the small waiting area.

The waiting area, not the front desk.

Shit, maybe he does have a real visitor.

Dean glances up, trying not to be obvious about it, and watches as Lisa walks into the waiting room. It’s not directly connected to the garage for obvious safety reasons, but there’s a large window that allows customers to see their cars while they’re worked on. Most of Dean’s view is blocked, he can really only see the vending machines in there and an end table covered in decade-old magazines, but when a certain blonde gentleman rises from his chair and gives Lisa a nod, he knows that she definitely wasn’t talking about their unborn son.

Balthazar is here, and for some reason he wants to talk to Dean.

Well, okay then.

Dean drops his tools and wipes his oily fingers on his ratty jeans. He hasn’t had a lunch break yet, only took a quick ten minute break to talk to Bobby about Lisa, so Dean figures he has enough time to talk to Balthazar about whatever it is he has to say. He’s not excited about a possible repeat of their last encounter, his black eye is just now starting to return to normal, but curiosity is a powerful motivator and Dean’s never been good at keeping that particular itch unscratched.

He catches Balthazar just outside the front the doors, stopping him with a tap on his shoulder and a quizzical look on his face. Dean keeps a few feet between them, and despite what happened last time, he’s not just going to take another attack without defending himself. Not that he thinks Balthazar is here to attack him, but still. A man does have a certain obligation to his dignity.

“I thought you didn’t have time for me,” Balthazar smirks, and his accent is just as formidable and annoying as Dean remembers.

“Sorry about that, I didn’t realize it was you,” Dean says, not bothering to elaborate further, “So, uh, what can I help you with?”

Balthazar takes a moment to look Dean over, sizing him up, and suddenly the prospect of a fight doesn’t seem so far-fetched. His posture remains passive, though, relaxed and at ease. “I’m leaving today. Actually, I’m on my way back to Kansas City right now, headed out.”

Dean’s not sure why Balthazar would feel the need to inform him of his whereabouts. “Okay?”

“I don’t like you, Dean,” Balthazar continues, his stance still neutral and languorous, “You are arrogant, selfish, inept, and blind. You are using your good looks to take advantage of my dear friend’s wealth, and it disgusts me.”

Dean can’t argue with most of what Balthazar is saying, he knows he’s a piece of shit human being and doesn’t need the extra enlightenment, but the British asshole in front of him clearly has no idea what he’s talking about. How many times did Dean have to tell Cas _not_ to spend money on him? And, shit, that isn’t what Cas is thinking, is it?

He doesn’t even know what to say to that. Instead, being the arrogant, selfish, inept, and blind bastard that he is, Dean replies with, “You think I’m good looking?”

Balthazar rolls his eyes, clearly unimpressed with Dean’s puckish attitude. Fuck him, anyway.

“In spite of my best efforts to convince him otherwise, Castiel insists that you are worthy of his time and attention. I don’t know what he sees in you, considering how unsuitable you are for him, but I cannot stop him from wanting you. I cannot change his mind,” Balthazar endures, the snarl in his voice getting deeper with every word.

This conversation is certainly not worth taking a break for, not when Dean could actually be eating or doing literally anything else, so he tries to hurry it along with an impatient scowl. “Did you just come all the way here to insult me, or did you have a point to get to?”

Balthazar sighs, exasperated. “Allow me to put this in layman’s terms for you, simpleton. Don’t fuck this up.”

Before Dean can reply, Balthazar is already on his way to his car. Dean stands there for a moment, wondering if what Baz said meant Cas was giving him a second chance. “Hey!” Dean calls out, wanting – no, _needing_ – further clarification, because he doesn’t think he could take it if he showed up on Cas’ doorstep only to be turned away. “What does that mean?”

Balthazar doesn’t even offer so much as a witty retort, ignoring Dean completely as he gets into his car and starts it. He drives off, leaving Dean standing in the parking lot like an idiot. Shit, he really must be stupid if he still doesn’t understand what Balthazar was actually saying.

Cas wants him, though. Cas still wants him and that’s all Dean really needed to hear, anyway. The rest can be figured out, the smaller details can settle into place after the bigger picture is assembled.

The world is suddenly much brighter and more colorful than it was just a few minutes ago.

He still hopes Balthazar crashes on the way home, smiting him with God’s powerfully swift middle finger of justice. And, wow, Dean really needs to work on his jealousy issues.

Dean turns to head back into the garage, not wanting this to count as his lunch break, but stops when he sees Lisa standing in the doorway. She’s leaning against the blue door frame, propping the front door open with her foot, and she’s glaring at him like he’s just done something terrible.

There’s only so many lectures Dean can take in a single day, if his dropping out of high school is any indication of that, so he tries to ignore her by opening the door wider to walk past. Unfortunately, Lisa is still very much pregnant, and there’s not exactly enough room for him to walk around her without possibly hurting her.

“He doesn’t like you very much, does he?” Lisa chuckles, getting right up in Dean’s business where she doesn’t belong.

“You should become a private detective with observation skills like that, Lisa. You’re a natural.”

“Oh, hush. I’m poking fun. What was all that about? Is he a friend of Cas?” She asks, leaning forward, being way more transparent than she means to. Dean can tell how desperately she wants to know what’s going on in his love life, which only irritates him further.

“Yeah, something like that. I need to get back inside, okay?”

Lisa tries to hide the flush of rejection that reddens her already glowing cheeks, but does a poor job of it. She used to be pretty good at hiding on her emotions, at being in control of what her face might give away, but now her heart has a season-pass ticket on her sleeve that betrays her mask of confidence readily and easily.

She steps back into the garage, allowing Dean to pass, and walks back to the front desk. Dean returns to the Cherokee and lets the last ten minutes sink in.

His cellphone buzzes in his pocket, but he ignores it for now. Honestly, almost everyone in his life is already here at the garage, and if it’s an emergency, then they’ll know to call Bobby. It could be Cas, though, and as much as that makes Dean happy, he needs to think about what Balthazar was saying first. He needs to figure out what he wants to say, what he wants to do, and when he’s going to do it.

Oh, who’s he kidding? Like Dean can actually wait longer than tonight. Balthazar is going-going-gone, it’s the bottom of the ninth inning and Dean is running for the home plate as fast as his legs will carry him. 

The next few hours are filled with the same mantra resounding in his skull, a happy, nervous mixture of _Cas, Cas, Cas,_ and _still wants me_ and _don’t fuck this up_. Dean won’t ruin this again. He swears it to himself on repeat, clinging to the second chance, letting it fill his chest until he’s swollen with eager, fearful excitement.

Dean skips taking a lunch break, only stopping long enough between cars to take a piss or crack a joke at Charlie’s expense, wanting to get his workload done early so he can rush home, shower, and then go to Cas’ place. Or, shit, maybe he shouldn’t be so aggressive about it. Maybe just texting or calling Cas first would be best. The last thing Dean wants to do is scare Cas away with his desperate groveling, or as Balthazar would say, his selfish, blind arrogance.

He can still feel Lisa watching him as he works. Between her frequent, unashamed glances in his direction, or the way she walks by him and lingers just a tad longer than she does around anyone else, Dean feels nine parts smothered and one part peeved as fuck. There’s no way that the pregnancy is solely responsible for the change in her behavior, because if he remembers correctly, she used to be pretty independent and never came across as needy as she is now. She pursued him, yeah, and it was great for his ego, but once they were together, things were mostly laid back. Comfortable. Normal.

Being with Lisa had been easy. She was one of those calm and collected girls with her shit straightened out and took care of herself. She knew what she wanted and went for it, was usually cheerful and content with life, and was just so easy to love. They had their trials and tribulations, just like everyone, and they were never meant to be, but Dean can’t stop wondering what happened that made her change, made her so clingy and lonely and frantic.

He wonders, too, why kind of guy she probably left him for.

Dean has to put a stop to that train of thought, though. Thinking about Lisa cheating and running off only leads to thinking about the baby’s paternity, and as much as Lisa’s been making him uncomfortable, he really, really wants it to be his baby. A lot.

That’s not something he’s actually admitted to out loud yet, not in quite so simple terms, but Charlie and Bobby seem to have already caught up with that particular secret and he can’t exactly lie about it. Fatherhood wasn’t something Dean ever thought would be in store for him, wasn’t something he ever aspired to, but now that it’s here and happening to him, he can’t wait to hold that little baby in his arms. He can’t wait to teach his son all the lyrics to every Led Zeppelin song, how to change a tire, which pie flavors are the best, and how to hold a gun the _right_ way, not like those idiots on television.

Sammy would have made a great uncle, too. He could have taught the boy all about the things Dean doesn’t know about, things you can find in a textbook or in a classroom or under a microscope. Sam could have taught his nephew about history, languages, and epic novels. They could have done science experiments together in Dean’s kitchen, making a grand mess but learning about the world around them. Things Dean will go to his grave without ever really knowing.

It’s a shame, and it wedges that Sammy sized fissure in Dean’s heart a little wider, letting all of those dreams and possibilities spill out and pool in his chest like a tangle of slimy worms, messing him up all over again. Each worm a reason, each worm a failure, all of them belonging to Dean.

He let those thoughts drag him under now. He can’t drink them away and wallow in self-pity. Dean has a son of his own now – soon he’s going to responsible for another human life and he’ll never do to his son what John did to him and Sam. Dean would rather be burned alive than fail his own child, would rather watch his flesh melt and blacken while thick, dark smoke clogs his lungs and suffocates him. He’d rather go out like Mary than live on like John.

It’s near the end of the work day, but Dean managed to finish early since he didn’t take a lunch break or pause much at all after Balthazar showed up. Bobby gives him permission to leave once his station is cleaned up, but not without another oh-so-friendly reminder that Dean’s not allowed to give Lisa a key. He’s not going to, not after experiencing a single day working in the same building as her, but now that Dean has a better idea about what Cas is going to do, he’d way rather give the key to the person he loves than to the person he’d have to tolerate.

Lisa must not have much awareness of her surroundings, because she stops Dean as he’s trying to leave. “Wait,” she says, waddling over to where he’s standing by the door, “you’re leaving early?”

“Yep,” Dean smiles, but it’s more of a lie than a cordial expression. He just wants Lisa to return to her desk and mind her own business.

“Can I come over? Just for a little bit, I promise. I made a list of baby names I like, and I was thinking we could go over them together.”

 _Hell yes_ , Dean thinks, immediately followed by _fuck-fuckity-dammit_. He wants to go to Cas’ house tonight, he wants to talk things out with him and see if they can make their relationship work, to end the stupid ‘break’ they both know is just a fib to spare Dean’s feelings.

But…the baby. Lisa had said some pretty damning things when she came back, about what a terrible father he would have made, how the kid would always end up competing for Dean’s attention. Plus, Balthazar had been pretty vague, and there’s still a good chance that Cas isn’t ready to see him.

His kid should come first, really. It’s just one night, and Dean can still call or text after Lisa leaves. The baby is due in a matter of weeks, and he needs a name. Dean very much wants to be a part of that process, so he lets his smile melt into a genuine one when he finally says, “Yeah, come on over when you’re shift is done.”

Lisa’s entire face brightens, then scrunches in pain for a second while she sucks in a deep breath. Dean nearly has a heart attack every time that happens, worried something is wrong with the baby, but Lisa recovers almost instantly every time and just laughs about what strong legs the little guy has.

Hopefully they’re not bowlegs. Dean doesn’t want his kid hearing some of the things people have to say about that certain physical quirk.

“See you in an hour,” Lisa beams, waving goodbye as Dean leaves the garage and goes to his car.

Dean’s excited now for a new reason, but still a little bummed about not going to see Cas directly after work. He makes it home, dashes inside and straightens up what he can in the short amount of time before Lisa shows up. His place isn’t a mess or anything, but he doesn’t want to give Lisa any reason not to trust him alone with their kid. Pregnant women have some kind of sixth sense about child safety and all the possible ways a baby could die, and he’ll be damned if he lets a little clutter come between him and being a dad.

It didn’t take him long, so he showers and throws on some comfortable sweats and a t-shirt. He eyes his closet warily, wondering how many other items of clothing he still owns that Lisa picked out, afraid to put anything on that might give her the wrong impression.

Dean has about fifteen minutes left now before Lisa shows up, so he throws together a quick dinner that the two of them can share. It’s a simple dish, just some jasmine rice boiled in chicken broth and topped with a little salt and pepper. He figures it will be easy on Lisa’s stomach, and it’s never too early to start training their baby’s taste buds.

She shows up just after six, driving another one of Bobby’s spare vehicles, and Dean opens the door before she can knock.

“Hey,” he greets, letting her inside, “I made dinner.”

Lisa’s tired expression changes into something that looks like a victorious grin.

One step forward, a hundred steps back, as usual.

“It smells good in here,” Lisa comments, going directly over the big bowl on the kitchen counter filled with the still-steaming rice. “Can I have some?”

“That’s why I made it,” Dean answers, joining her at the counter. He grabs a couple of bowls from the cupboard and spoons them each a hefty serving, then sets the bowls on the table.

Dean forgot that this is the first time Lisa’s been in the house since she first left, back when John was still living here and all of Sammy’s things still cluttered the corners and bedrooms. She’s looking around now with renewed interest, surprised and in awe of the changes she sees. Lisa stares at the table for a while, too, confusion on her face mixing with fascination. “Is this a new table?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, full of pride. “Got rid of the old one and built this myself.”

Lisa just nods, but the awestruck look on her face doesn’t leave. “The kitchen looks different, too.”

Dean didn’t change very much in the kitchen, though, so she must have a fairly good memory of how it used to look. All he did was stain the cabinets a darker color and update the hardware, getting rid of the bulbous knobs and replacing them with sleeker looking handles. “Just the cabinets, not much,” he acknowledges.

A sadness befalls her then, and Dean’s not sure what he did to upset her. Did he say something wrong? He’s about to ask when she speaks first, saying, “You made a lot of changes after I left, didn’t you? But not just the house.”

Dean really doesn’t want to turn this into a chick flick moment, and he wants to stay on task and pick out a name for the little creature swimming around in Lisa’s uterus, but he’s honestly confused about what she’s getting at and his curiosity wins again. “What?”

“You’re different. The Dean I left is not the same Dean I came back to.”

 _Yeah, the Dean you left_ , he wants to emphasize, but doesn’t.

If he wanted, they could have that discussion. They could dissect the events that led to their break up, what Dean did after he read the note, but he just doesn’t think any good would come from it. He could ask Lisa where she’s been, what she’s been doing, but really, he doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t care. There’s too much of a chance that Dean will find out something he doesn’t want to know, something that could sully the already fragile state of their friendship.

If he wants this to work, if he wants to be the best dad he can be, then Dean has to put all those details aside so he can focus on what matters.

“Yeah,” Dean finally settles on, keeping it light. “Change is good, though, I think.”

“For you,” Lisa mutters, looking away. She blinks away a stray tear, but red blooms on her cheeks like roses and her breath stutters. Dean’s still not clear what’s wrong, but he thinks he gets it. She came back here looking for _her_ Dean, but he doesn’t exist anymore.

Unsure of what else to do, Dean just watches as Lisa gets her emotions under control. He briefly considered giving her a hug, but there are strict lines drawn between them now and he doesn’t want to cross them.

“So,” she starts, pulling a folded piece of paper out of her pocket and handing it over. “This is the list I made. There’s not much, and there’s a few girl names on there just in case, but it’s kind of hard to decide, isn’t it?”

“You’re right,” Dean chuckles, glancing the list over. “Kid’s going to be stuck with whatever we pick for the rest of his life. Better be a good one.”

Lisa spoons some of the rice into her mouth, and her eyes rolls back in pleasure. She moans around the mouthful, and Dean can’t help but think it’s kind of cute. Not in a sexy or attractive way, though he’s sure he would feel that way if they were still together, but there’s just something adorable about her enjoying the food he made. It makes him feel good, too, like he actually did something for their baby, did something decent for the both of them. 

His son isn’t even born, and already Dean wants more kids.

He goes over the list a second time, ignoring the girl names for now. Only a few of them really catch his eye, the good ol’ American names that Dean thinks would fit best riding along in the Impala, like Jack or Ben or Jeremy. Lisa has some of the names starred, which must be her favorites, but Dean doesn’t know how he feels about naming his son Zayden. He’s not really into that ‘trendy’ shit, it seems.

None of the girl names sit well with him. It’s his own fault for going to so many strip clubs, too many girl names associated with pole dancing and thongs and single dollar bills. Especially the flowery or sweet names Lisa apparently liked, like Layla and Hazel. The last thing Dean wants to think about when he’s talking to his little girl is a cheap date in the back of his Baby and the smell of cotton candy perfume.

“Can I suggest a new girl name?” Dean asks, afraid to hurt Lisa’s feelings about her list. But she doesn’t seem to mind at all, scraping the bottom of the bowl clean and licking her lips.

“Of course,” she says, her eyes darting over to the pot on the stove. Dean takes her bowl with a knowing smile and gets her some more, refilling it and bringing the salt and pepper shakers over to the table.

“I think Page would be a good name for a girl,” Dean braves, sitting back down in his chair. He carefully avoids making eye contact with her, just in case she hates it.

“Oh, like that band you love? One of the guys from that, right?”

“Jimmy Page, yeah. What do you think?”

Lisa tumbles the idea around in her mind, sprinkling some pepper on her rice and eating more of it. “Page,” she mumbles, testing it out, then saying it again a bit louder and with more excitement. “Could we spell it with an ‘I’? Like P-A-I-G-E?”

Dean shrugs, “Sure.”

“Okay, it’s a deal. If it’s a girl, she’ll be Paige. What about a middle name?” Lisa leans forward, relaxing a bit and settling more comfortably in Dean’s home. It’s the first time since she’s been back that Dean’s actually seen her behave the way she used to. It’s nice seeing her unwind and be her old self again.

“Actually, I was kind of hoping that the baby could take my brother’s name, for either gender. You know, like Samuel or Samantha,” Dean fidgets. His heart picks up speed and he can feel his own fair share of blood rushing to his face. He doesn’t know why it makes him so nervous, or why he’s so afraid of rejection, but this is something important to him. Dean would rather have a Zayden Samuel than a Jack…whatever, a Jack Not-Sam.

Lisa swallows her rice and grimaces, then quickly tries to hide the soured expression on her face. She starts to say something, but stops, changing her mind.

Obviously she doesn’t like it. Now Dean regrets saying anything.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea, Dean?” Lisa asks, softening her voice. She’s staring into him now like she could actually see through him if she tried hard enough, and it’s far too penetrating for Dean’s comfort.

“Why wouldn’t it be?” He’s upset now, not just because Lisa so evidently hates his suggestion, but because now there’s apparently something wrong about even suggesting it. The last thing he wants to hear right now is a jab at his little brother.

Lisa shifts in her seat, setting the spoon down on the table. “It’s just…isn’t Sam, um, an addict? I don’t know if that’s really something we should be passing on.”

Right, because names are like infectious diseases, spreading their muck and filth into the souls of the people who possess them. She’s treating the name like a curse, daring to suggest that giving their boy the middle name Samuel would naturally make him a drug addict. It doesn’t just hurt, it _infuriates_ Dean. Sam is so much more than the drugs, so much more than his addiction. He’s smart and funny with a Gumby-like charm, bull-headed but wise beyond his years. Dean would be damn proud of his son if he ended up with just a tenth of Sam’s general awesomeness.

But he bites his tongue, figuratively and literally, not wanting to start a fight. She doesn’t like it, and even if Dean spent the time defending his brother, it’s not going to change her mind.

He takes a deep breath, nodding, and feigns understanding of Lisa’s ludicrous concern.  “You’re right,” Dean concedes, angry at himself for doing so.

“I’m sorry,” Lisa breathes, pushing her bowl of rice away from her and rubbing her belly. “I’ll think about it, alright? What do you think of the boy names?”

Dean tries to maintain his excitement over the list, but much of his enthusiasm was drained out of him by Lisa’s callous remark. It’s his son too, dammit, and whether she likes it or not, that makes Sam the baby’s uncle. The last living relative on Dean’s side of the family.

“You know me, Lisa, I just like the regular stuff. Jack’s cool, Ben’s good too.”

“Benjamin is my favorite,” Lisa confesses, her voice still soft and careful. “And I guess Benjamin Samuel isn’t too bad.”

She’s smiling, trying to cheer Dean up, building the bridge that had been burned between them for so long. It’s an olive branch, and Dean’s willing to take it.

“I like that,” Dean agrees, the resentment and fury fading away slowly, making way for that contented anticipation once again.

Dean’s phone buzzes again where it sits on the counter. He forgot to check it earlier, and forgot again when he got home and tried to give his house a five minute makeover. Lisa leans back in her chair stretching her back and shoulder blades as she raises her arms over her head. Dean watches her for a moment, wondering if she’d be upset if he looked at his phone, then realizes it doesn’t matter. His house, his phone, his rules.

Heh. Maybe she had Dean more whipped than he realized.

She doesn’t complain when he gets up from the table and goes to the counter, thank goodness. He’d managed to keep things from exploding this long, and he’d like to keep that going for as long as possible. Lisa used to really hate it when he’d be on his phone around her, but now that thought just kind of makes him feel bad. He never realized Lisa felt like she had to compete for his attention. 

Dean checks his phone, and his stomach drops.

There are two text messages from Jessica.

 

**Jessica Moore 1:13pm**

**> > Ruby’s dead**

**Jessica Moore: 6:29pm**

**> >and Sam’s missing**

 

 


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first half of this chapter is from Lisa's perspective, the second goes back to Dean's.

Dean stares at his phone.

Lisa watches the color slowly drain from his face, his expression shifting from confusion to doubt to pain. She knows his face well; studied it, memorized the little quirks and muscle twitches that have a language all their own. Dean is an easy person to read, so long as you know where to look.

What she sees now as she looks at Dean isn’t what she was expecting, what she was hoping for. He’s heartbroken now, when only a moment prior he had been content, excited even. There are only so many people who could be responsible for that look, the one that makes Dean look like he’s ready to kill someone, but Lisa has a pretty good idea of who it could be.

It can’t be John, because that bastard is long dead and buried, right where his flammable carcass belongs. Can’t be Sam either, because apparently he’s a heroin addict now and already gave Dean the boot. So really, it can only be Cas. That asshole has done nothing but ruin her plan from day one - and here he is again, interrupting her moment with Dean as they discuss their baby’s name.

Well, probably his baby. Possibly.

Okay, so it’s not his baby. But Dean doesn’t have to know that.

Quite frankly, Lisa was surprised that Dean accepted it so quickly. It’s almost as if he doesn’t remember that he always used a condom, or that they didn’t even have sex for the last month or so of their relationship. He had been so busy with his dad, so distracted by his father’s needs that Dean completely forgot about his own. He spent less and less time with her, ignoring her calls, and making poor excuses for why John needed so much attention. How could anyone blame her for looking for a little comfort? Coming in second place to that whiskey-soaked dunce was hard enough for her to deal with, and not being touched by Dean made it ten times worse.

It was an accident though, really. It wasn’t supposed to go as far as it did. Nick was just a sad, sweet guy that made her feel special in a moment of weakness. It had been so long since Lisa felt that way, since someone actually made her feel _wanted,_ and she was powerless against the pull of his magnetic eyes – the way he looked at her, how his eyes trailed over her body like he just couldn’t help himself. It was everything she wanted from Dean, everything she remembered of Dean in their early days, and if she happened to close her eyes and pretend it was her green-eyed lover kissing a wet trail down her hips, then that’s her business.

She wasn’t supposed to get pregnant, but she knows that’s not how life works. When Dean proposed, it was like a Get Out Of Jail Free card. She could have slept with him that night and then pretended to take a pregnancy test a few weeks later. She could have made it work out to her advantage without confessing her terrible sin.

But, in the end, Lisa couldn’t follow through with it. She couldn’t even say goodbye. So when Nick asked her to move to Wichita, she simply packed her bags and quietly pulled herself out of Dean’s life.

Lisa never stopped loving Dean. There’s just something about him that makes a person want to stay in his arms, some kind of unnamed quality that radiates through him and warms whoever is lucky enough to be nearby. Sometimes she thinks that she never really had a chance anyway, that even if she hadn’t of left, it would have ended eventually. Lisa would have grown tired of taking backseat to John all the time, would have given up hope of ever being the center of Dean’s attention. Everyone wants Dean, but Dean never wanted anyone else, no one except his father and his brother. He just didn’t have enough room in his heart for more.

Until Cas came along. God, that had been such a shock. Seeing Dean at that table with the mysterious dark-haired man really knocked her off balance. Lisa had no idea that Dean liked guys, and her gut reaction told her that she must have really damaged him by leaving the way she did, to the point where he swore off women for good. But it wasn’t just that Dean was on a date with Cas, it was the way they were staring at each other. It was the smile on Cas’ face, the pure joy and excitement glinting in Dean’s eyes. It wasn’t fair. Even in their best days, Dean never looked at Lisa like that, not once.

A part of her considered turning around, leaving them be, but she couldn’t. The Dean she saw at the table with Cas was the Dean that Lisa had always wanted. He was perfect, happy, and held himself a little higher. She thought it was because of John’s death, she thought that without his father around to weigh him down, Dean was finally able to experience life the way most people do. Lisa didn’t know what to expect when she approached them, didn’t know how it would turn out, but she had to give it a shot.

And she’s been trying, too. Every day since her return, Lisa tries to remind Dean of what they had, how good it could be, and how it’s the best solution for their baby. She’s lucky that Nick is blonde and tall, somewhat similar to Dean, but she’s more thankful that her own features will likely drown out Nick’s. Her dark hair and dark eyes, her caramel skin and oval face will more than likely be passed on her to her child. She just hopes that Dean doesn’t ask for a paternity test.

Nick…he was a mistake. Living with him helped her see that, helped her realize that Dean is the only man she’ll ever want. Nick was okay, but he had lost his wife and child. They were murdered, and Lisa doesn’t think that’s something he’ll ever recover from. Nick had accidentally called her Sarah more than once, and he was constantly in fear that someone would break in and kill Lisa and their baby, too. It was too much, she couldn’t take it anymore, and she came back here in a final, desperate attempt to have the life she always wanted. A life with Dean.

But every time Lisa feels like she’s made some progress, Dean reminds her that he’s in love with Cas. She hasn’t given up hope, she knows she can convince Dean to take her back, but not with Cas always getting in the way. Cas needs to hurry up and end things, especially since he has Dean waiting on him, waiting for an answer, and he’s taking his sweet time coming to a conclusion.

It’s the best (and probably last) opportunity to win Dean back.

So as Dean’s face falls, hollowing with horror and fear, Lisa beams a little with hope. It’s probably Cas breaking up with him, and he’ll need to be comforted. He’ll see that Lisa has been here waiting for him, wanting him, willing to give him whatever he wants.

Dean shoves his phone in his pocket with trembling hands, then bolts to the bedroom.

Lisa doesn’t know what to make of that, but it’s less than a minute later and Dean’s already back out in the kitchen, his duffel bag half packed, and is searching through his pantry. He shoves a handful of jerky in the duffel, too, and now Lisa really has no idea what’s going on. He was so upset before he went to the bedroom, but came back with a look of determination and grit.

She just doesn’t get why he’s packing his duffel, or why he’s doing it in such a rush.

“Dean?” Lisa asks, still sitting at the table. He pauses for a second and glances over, his face turning red and twisting in embarrassment. Whatever he saw on his phone had impacted him so greatly that he completely forgot Lisa was even here.

Yeah, it’s got to have something to do with Cas.

“Are you okay?” She presses further, worried at his lack of response. He sets his duffel down, slowly, as if he doesn’t really want to, then shakes his head. “What’s wrong?”

“I gotta go,” Dean intones, and it pisses her off. She takes a deep breath to get her emotions under control. She can’t let her pregnancy hormones take over, not now.

“Where?”

“California,” he says, in the same emotionless voice as before. It’s hard to see him this way, so shut off and disengaged, just like he used to be right there at the end before everything crashed and burned. It’s not Cas then, at least. It must have something to do with Sam, and though she’s never met the guy or had any issue with him, a small part of her hopes that he overdosed or something and that’s why Dean looks so sad.

Dean doesn’t deserve to be dragged down by his family. He’s a loving, hardworking guy with so much to give, but all John and Sam ever did was suck him dry and tie bricks to his ankles. Sam is in a different state completely, and somehow he still manages to pull Dean back under that dangerous current.

Another thought settles heavy in her mind, and she’s reminded that Dean has gone to California once already this year. Dean briefly mentioned it, but Bobby and Jody talk about it so often that it was impossible not to overhear. He had gone to California with Cas in an attempt to bring Sam back home, but it ended miserably.

Dean had gone with Cas, and now she’s scared. If he takes Cas with him again, then there’s no way Lisa will ever get him back.

She’s barely had her chance, barely been able to make her case. She had planned on having that talk with Dean tonight, after softening him up with baby names and even letting him pick the middle name on his own. But it’s all gone to waste, out the window, kaput.

“Is Sam okay?” Lisa needs to know that much, so she can try and formulate a new plan as quickly as possible.

Dean is about to say something, but then he bites his tongue and nods his head instead. “Yeah.”

Shit. He’s so closed off that he won’t even talk to her, won’t even let her know what’s going on. Lisa rises from the table, which is a bit of a challenge with the strain on her back and her baby’s feet kicking away at her ribs, and waddles over to him.

He looks discomforted by her presence, and that only pisses her off more. Dean has no reason to shy away from her, no reason to look so unhappy about it. Is he really that repulsed by her? Is he really that turned off by how much her body has changed?

“Then why are you going to California? Why are you leaving right now?”

Dean does that thing where he bites on his lower lip, nervous and irritated, an old habit of his that he’ll probably never quit. It used to be bad enough that he’d bite on his lip until it bled, until it was sore and swollen and dark. She wonders if he still does that sometimes.

“Sam needs me. It can’t wait.”

 _Yes it can_ , Lisa thinks, angrily. _He left you and made his own bed, now let him lie in it._

She knows better than completely ruin her chances with a comment like that, but she still defiantly wears it on her face. “Are you going alone?”

Dean stops again, receding into his mind and spacing out for a moment. His head drops and he stares at the floor, then shrugs.

Lisa wonders if Dean knows how fragile he looks all the time, how weakness and misery bleed out of him even when he’s smiling. Probably not.

It’s now or never, she thinks, watching Dean shove more of his apocalypse-sized jerky stash into his duffel. “Take me with you,” she pleads, softening her voice and giving him owlish eyes. It’s the same look that always used to work on him, the one she used when she first asked him out the night they met at the Roadhouse. It melts him every time, makes him smile and nod.

Except for this time, apparently, because Dean cracks a laugh that almost scares her, shaking his head and dropping his duffel. “No, not happening.”

Lisa has to bite the inside of her cheek to keep the desperate gasp caged behind her lips. It was a long shot, she knew that, but she still wanted it badly. They have so many memories in that Impala, good ones, little pieces of their love and history that she’ll never forget. She’s so angry, so hurt to be rejected that bluntly and with a _laugh_. Did he not grieve at all? Did he even care that she left?

No, apparently nothing matters to Dean as much as Cas. It figures Dean would fall in love with some guy when he spent his whole life pining after John and Sam, the only two dicks that ever held a permanent place in his life. Something like that can really warp a young, impressionable mind.

“Give me one good reason why I can’t go, that _doesn’t_ involve Cas,” Lisa challenges, her hands resting on her hips. Baby boy is kicking away inside of her, but she does what she can to ignore it. She’s trying to be serious and he’s not helping.

Dean’s eyes narrow at the sound of Cas’ name, his brow furrows, angry and defensive. It’s the same thing he used to do when Lisa would talk about John, or ask about Sam. Dean can lay brick faster than anyone she knows, fortifying that wall he’s built around himself since he was four year old. Lisa catches the subtle clench of his fist, and the way his weight shifts from his heels to his toes.

“I’ll give you three,” Dean smirks, or maybe it’s more of a passive-aggressive smile. Whatever it is, it’s not good. “First, you’re pregnant, which means you’re going to pee way more often than I can afford to stop. Second, you’re _eight months_ pregnant, and I don’t want you going into labor on the road. Third, _you’re fucking pregnant_ , and I am not bringing you or our baby into a potentially dangerous situation.”

Somehow, Lisa doesn’t believe that’s all it is. He’s just using her pregnancy as an excuse not to take her along, to avoid her even more, to deny the lingering strings of love she knows are still between them.

It’s so painfully unfair. Cas doesn’t deserve Dean. Cas wasn’t there when Dean had to take care of John. He didn’t see all the ways that Dean used to struggle, the way he hated himself and carried all that hatred in his arms. Cas wasn’t the one lifting him up, reminding him of all the good he’s done or telling him that he deserves more. Cas never had to put up with John himself, never had to fight with that fermented buzzard to defend Dean’s broken heart.

Lisa hates Cas. _Hates_ him. More than she’s ever hated anyone before, even more than John.

“Then what am I supposed to?” Lisa snaps, furious with her eyes for watering.

Dean isn’t looking at her anymore. He’s more interested in the other dry foods in his cupboard, grabbing a couple of Cokes and shoving them in his duffel too. “You’re going to stay here and incubate that baby a little longer, I guess.”

Lisa’s pretty sure a heart can actually break under the right circumstances, can literally shatter and spray blood all over the rest of the organs, and she’s certain that’s what’s happening to her right now. She can feel it, the little Dean-shaped chisel picking away at the soft muscle in her chest. She gave up Nick for this, for _Dean_ , and he can’t even look at her while he dismisses her. Lisa cries, scrunching her face in a futile attempt to dam up the tears. Dean doesn’t even notice that she’s crying, that she’s suffering.

Just like old times.

“Don’t do this,” she pleads, tilting her head down and pinching the bridge of her nose. “Please.”

He stops then, but looks confused. One eyebrow lifts before he looks around the room, as if he might actually find a blue paw print to help him solve the mystery of the crying pregnant woman. “Don’t do what?”

Maybe it’s the hormones, maybe it’s her own stupid desperation, but she can’t seem to control her impulses anymore. Lisa steps forward, not really sure what she’s going to do, but when Dean takes a step back to avoid being too close to her, she really loses it. Lisa practically charges him until his back hits the wall and his eyes widen in fear and disgust.

“Don’t take Cas with you,” she whispers, despite the aggressive way she’s crowding him into the corner. Lisa doesn’t think she could handle it if Dean left and took that blue-eyed, white-collared asshole with him.

“Uh…” Dean hesitates, his eyes darting around like he’s looking for an escape route. How could he really be this sickened by her? This troubled?  “Why not?”

Regret sours Dean’s face the moment he says the words, biting his tongue and pursing his lips. Lisa can tell he wishes he could take the question back, but he can’t, so she answers it anyway. She takes a deep breath, trying to get her nervous tongue and lumpy throat under control.

“I’m still in love with you, Dean. I didn’t think I could ever really have you, not with John always needing you the way he did. But you’re doing so good now, and you’ve made great changes, and we could be such a happy family together. That’s all I ever wanted for us, and this is our chance. Please, babe, don’t let Cas ruin our best shot at happiness. I’m here now, okay? You don’t need him to replace me anymore.”

There’s a brief moment when compassion and empathy flash across Dean’s face, and for a second Lisa thinks she might have actually broken through that wall of his. It’s a short victory, quickly squashed by the anger and disbelief that takes over his features. It was a risky move to throw Cas under the bus like that, but it was a risk she was willing to take. It just didn’t pay off like she hoped.

“I’m sorry,” Dean says, his voice gentle but firm. “I love Cas, and that’s not about to change any time soon.”

If there had been any hope that Lisa would be able to control her tears, they were gone now. She cries, wiping the tears away on the back of her hands, her breath hitching and stuttering around the pathetic whines spilling out of her mouth.

Everything is ruined, including herself. She can’t handle this, doesn’t want to, doesn’t think there’s any point anymore. Nick was never her soul mate, not like Dean was, but at least he begged her not to go. At least he texts her all the time and begs her to come back. Yet here she is, throwing herself a man that doesn’t even want her. Sure, Dean wants their baby, wants to be a part of the baby’s life and be a good father. He’s even building the crib himself and child-proofing his house.

Except, it’s _not_ Dean’s baby, and that’s the only ammunition she has left, the last wild card in the deck.

Lisa knows it’s wrong, but before she can stop herself, she rises up on her toes and plants a kiss right on Dean’s mouth.

“Whoa,” he says, trying to melt into the wall when he can’t back up any further. He lifts his hands to her shoulders and carefully pushes her back. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

She should listen, she knows she should, but Lisa can’t seem to stop. Some reckless, frenzied part of her brain has awakened and she’s closing in again, trying to kiss him or taste him or _something_ , as if he’d actually give in and kiss her back and they’d live happily ever after. Lisa manages to kiss him again, missing his lips when he jerks his head away, leaving a lipstick mark on the corner of his mouth.

“Stop,” Dean asserts, his voice darkening to match the charred anger and heartbreak Lisa can feel smoldering in her chest. “If you can’t respect the boundaries I set, then we can’t be friends.”

It’s such a cheesy thing to say, like a line from those health and safety videos about appropriate conduct in the workplace, and it makes her feel like some kind of predator. More than that, she’s so embarrassed that she feels sick. Right on cue, her stomach turns and she knows she’s going to throw up.

Lisa darts over to the sink and vomits, all the rice that she ate comes back up and splashes into the drain. There’s nothing graceful or cute about puking, especially not when she’s pregnant and her insides are all squished up and rearranged, and definitely not when she’s just kissed the man she’s trying to win back.

It’s over. Lisa knows it, and as she’s emptying the contents of her stomach into Dean’s new copper sink, she wonders what could have happened that screwed everything up so royally. They were in love, weren’t they? They were together so long, it seems impossible that Dean could move on so quickly. Even though Lisa is the one who left, how could he forget about her so easily while she thought of him every day?

Then Dean is beside her, rubbing her back and turning on the faucet to wash away the rice. It feels nice, much nicer than it should, and it scares her. It’s too much like the days when they were together, the way Dean would always take care of her when she was sick. Is he thinking about that right now? Is he wondering if she still feels the same, looks the same beneath her clothes? Probably not, she guesses. With the way things are going tonight, Dean is probably wishing he was touching Cas instead.

Lisa spits and rinses out her mouth, then takes the washcloth from Dean’s hands and dries her face. “I don’t understand,” Lisa admits, her voice still breaking, “I thought we had a good thing together, Dean, I really did.”

“Yeah, we kinda did, but that ended when you left. It really fucked me up for a while, but I got over it. I moved on. I love Cas, and quite frankly he doesn’t deserve to be disrespected like this.”

Dean says it calmly and kindly enough, but it pulls on the final thread that had been keeping Lisa together. “Disrespected?”

Dean sighs, looking at the clock. Even now, all he can think about is getting out of here to see Cas and his stupid brother. “Yes, Lisa, disrespected. This? You kissing me and calling Cas a silver medal? That’s disrespectful, and I don’t want to hear it anymore. I don’t want you to kiss me again, either. I’m sorry to be so blunt, but you’re not exactly giving me much choice here.”

Lisa doesn’t believe it. This can’t possibly be the same man who did whatever his father said, who did nothing for himself, who stood up to no one, meek and dejected. This is not the Dean Winchester she knew and loved. This one…whoever he is, Lisa isn’t going to hold back or spare his feelings anymore. He doesn’t deserve it.

“How the fuck is Cas being disrespected, Dean? How is he being treated any worse than the way you’re treating me? He shuts you down and makes you wait, but here I am throwing myself at you like a fool, and yet you still wait for _him_! Why? What the Hell do I have to do to get you back, Dean? What more do you fucking want?”

“I don’t want you!” Dean yells back, and something inside Lisa snaps.

It’s just a slap at first, hard, a loud smack echoing in the kitchen and a red palm print forming on his face. Dean recoils, shocked, far more surprised than angry or scared. She should stop, one hit was more than enough, but she can’t. She won’t. Dean has ruined her life, has taken everything she ever wanted away from her and gave it to Cas.

Lisa starts hitting Dean’s chest, but her movements are erratic and unpracticed. She’s never hit anyone before, let alone attack them, but all the fury and desperation and guilt comes pouring out of her in one massive torrent. She can’t see past her own tears, can’t hear anything except the sobs ripping from her throat. Dean starts blocking her hits, not hitting her back, and it only makes her feel more pathetic and stupid.

So she knees him in the groin, or at least she thinks she did. Dean gasps and bends over, putting his head at the perfect height for hitting him.

Lisa draws her arm back like the cocking of a gun, but stops. She wipes the tears from her face again and watches as Dean crumples onto the floor. He’s not hurt, not clutching at his groin like she expected, holding his thigh instead. He leans against the cabinets, giving up, not defending himself or asking her to stop. He looks devastated, and it’s all Lisa’s fault.

She steps back, looking at all the damage she’s done. This isn’t what she wanted, what she meant to do. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way, but she knows nothing after this will ever be the same again.

Dean looks up at Lisa, his face red and strained like he’s holding back tears. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice shaking and mournful. “I’m so sorry I did this to you.”

Lisa wants to laugh. Only Dean would think to apologize to his abuser, to take blame for something that wasn’t his fault.

She ruined a good man by trying to keep him, by trying to force him into something he didn’t want. Lisa lied to him, lied to herself, and the consequences are here and staring her down. She’s just a faulty snare, a misfire, a mistake in just one chapter of Dean Winchester’s life.

She could say goodbye this time, give him fair warning, but doesn’t. She can’t, she’s still every bit the coward she was when she left the first time. Lisa takes another step back, then another, turning toward the door and grabbing her purse off the table.

Dean doesn’t say anything or try to stop her. She’s not sure why she thought he would.

Lisa gets in the busted old car that Bobby gave her, turning the key multiple times before it finally turns over and starts. She could go back to Bobby’s to get her suitcase, but really, all she brought with her were some maternity clothes, and soon she won’t be needing those anyway. She pulls out her phone and reads the newest texts from Nick. They’re all the same, each one pleading for her to come back, that he’s sorry, that he misses her more and more every minute.

It’s the best Lisa’s ever going to get.

She pulls out of Dean’s drive way and heads to Wichita.

* * * 

It’s a long time before Dean finally pulls himself up.

He’s not sure what to feel. He’s mad at Lisa, obviously, but he’s not entirely sure why. He’s tried so hard to make this work, to make everyone happy and take care of his unborn son, but he’s failed again.

When Lisa kissed him, it was a wake-up call. Dean doesn’t get those very often, it’s not common for him the get the flashing light bulb above his head or hear the _ding-ding-ding_ of the winner’s bell in his corner. But this one was big, and it scared the shit out of him. He didn’t realize how poorly he was handling the Lisa situation, nor did he realize just how far she was willing to go. Yeah, he made himself pretty clear, but evidently it wasn’t enough and he should have seen that.

Dean should have realized how much it would hurt Lisa to hear those words so bluntly, to be rejected without easing into it. He may as well have shoved her off the rooftop and been stupidly surprised when she hit the ground.

He couldn’t really help it, though. It’s not like Dean was being vague or ambiguous before, he had always been clear with her about who he loves and who he wants to be with. She was so persistent, so secretive, and he regrets not taking everyone’s advice. He should have asked her the right questions, the ones he was too afraid to hear the answers to. There’s a lot of things he should have done differently, and now it’s all fucked up beyond repair.

She probably just needs to cool down for a bit. He’ll call Bobby’s in the morning and check up on her, and try to talk to her again. He doesn’t want his son to be raised by two people who hate each other, who can’t look at each other without resentment and bitter memories. Maybe there’s something else he can do for her to ease her pain, something that doesn’t compromise his relationship with Cas or send her the wrong message.

It’s wishful thinking, he knows, but optimism is a new concept for Dean and it helps him cope with the aftermath of Lisa’s explosion.

Dean just couldn’t stand the way Lisa had been talking about Cas, like he’s some kind of consolation prize, a filler for the empty space Lisa left when she disappeared from Dean’s life. Cas is not a silver medal, he’s not the understudy that took over the lead role when Lisa quit. Cas is smart and wonderful and deserves so much more than Dean has ever been able to give him.

What Cas doesn’t deserve is to be treated like he’s disposable. Dean already fucked up once in that area, and he’s not about to let Lisa do it too.

He rises from the floor, his thigh throbbing in protest when he accidentally bangs it against the cabinets. Dean never realized how strong Lisa was, so he sends a quick thank you to the man upstairs for sparing his balls from that particular brand of pain.

He’ll have to deal with Lisa when he gets back from California. He’ll call to make sure she’s okay, but right now Dean has to concentrate on the much more important task of saving his brother. Lisa might have her fair share of problems right now, but she’s a grown woman with people here to take care of her, and she’ll still be here when he gets back.

The first thing Dean thought about after deciding to pack his duffel bag and head out as soon as possible was whether or not he should ask Cas to go with him. Dean doesn’t want to go alone, sure, but it’s about more than that. He wants to be with Cas, and he wants Cas to be there when Dean goes through this process again. Cas is the only one who can center him, who can make him feel whole when the shattered pieces of his family are swept away and tossed out.

Aside from the obvious hardships of the last trip, it had been good, right? They had fun, made some great memories, and it was on that road trip that Dean realized he would never be happy with anyone else. He’d rather be alone than be with someone who isn’t Cas.

And that’s okay. Even if Cas decides not to take him back, Dean will make it. It’s probably better that he stays away from the dating scene, anyway.

Dean will ask Cas to go. He’ll probably say no, but it’s more than worth it. Even the slightest chance that Cas might say yes is enough to motivate Dean into action.

His leg hurts, but he finishes packing anyway. He grabs the key, too, just in case. If Cas says no, then maybe Dean can still give Cas the key, asking him to check on the house while Dean is away. It’s a poor cover for what Dean really wants to do, but Charlie was right. It’s Cas’ key, and even if he doesn’t want to move in, Dean has no use for the reminder of what could have been.

Lisa will understand. She’ll come around eventually, they’ll work things out and be friends. Dean understands how hard it can be to resort to friendship after a long, intense relationship. He did propose to her, after all, and something like that is kind of hard to forget. She’s carrying his child, too, and that’s got to make the whole thing even harder. It’s for those reasons that Dean can’t stay mad at her, no matter how much he would like to.

He sends a quick text back to Jessica, telling her that he’s on his way, then locks the front door behind him and gets in the Impala.

Even though Cas’ house is just a short walk away, Dean really does need to get going, so he figures he can just get back in the car and drive off after Cas has rejected him, or in the tiniest, rarest of chances that Cas actually says yes, then they can leave together without having to walk back to Dean’s.

When he gets to Cas’ place, he’s not surprised to see Cas up and looking out his window at the street. Dean’s Baby is loud, and can be heard coming a whole block away. It gives Dean a bit of hope that Cas still cares about him if he’s actually looking out for the Impala.

He gets out and starts walking, and Cas opens the door before Dean has the chance to knock. Cas looks him over without saying anything, his eyes lingering on Dean’s face and mouth.

Cas gets a little closer, but keeps a few feet between them. It’s disheartening to see just how much Cas still doesn’t want to be around him, how the look on Cas’ face is closer to dread and dismay more than happiness or surprise. It doesn’t do anything to help Dean’s nerves, and now that he can actually see how unhappy Cas is to be near him, he thinks he’s going to throw up. This was a terrible idea.

“Uh, hey Cas,” Dean mumbles, glancing away to avoid direct eye contact.

There’s an extremely long, awkward pause settling between them, but Dean doesn’t have the balls to speak up. He should leave, he should just get out of here before it gets any worse, but then Cas is stepping a little closer. Cas tilts his head and narrows his eyes, examining Dean’s mouth like it’s a crossword puzzle.

“Oh no,” Cas breaths, placing a hand over his heart, “you’re breaking up with me.”

“What?” Dean is confused, and has no idea how Cas came to that conclusion or why he was staring at Dean’s mouth. “No I’m not!”

“Yes, you are,” Cas insists, his voice jolting over the speed bump in his throat. “You’re practically having a panic attack and there’s lipstick on your face. Unless you’ve been cross-dressing lately, you’re here to tell me you’re back with Lisa, aren’t you?”

Fuck! Dean didn’t even think of that. Christ, he’s such a dumbass. Lisa always wears that fire-engine red lipstick, but it’s been so long since he’s kissed a person who wears makeup that he completely forgot to check his face in the mirror before he left.

“No!” Dean cries, reaching out to grab Cas’ shoulder. “Shit, I swear it’s not what it looks like.”

Cas jerks his shoulder away, a tear rolling down his face. Dean is setting a new record for the number of people he can reduce to tears in a single hour.

“Please, Dean, just say it so we can get this over with.”

“I’m not lying, okay? Lisa came over so we could discuss baby names, but then she kissed me and I had to push her off and it was _terrible_. You gotta believe me, man, Lisa and I are never getting back together,” Dean explains, out of breath by the time he’s done. He was already having some trouble getting enough oxygen in his system, but now his heart is racing against the speed of light and there are hundreds of needles prodding at his palms and fingertips.

If Dean ever doubted there’s a God, he doesn’t now. Cas looks convinced, more at ease but still a little wary. He swallows the lump in his throat, saying, “Really?”

Thank the Almighty Merciful Bearded Dude in the Sky. “Yes, really. I swear.”

Cas nods, choosing to trust Dean at his word rather than push the issue. Even that small, almost insignificant gesture radiates through Dean’s body, shocking his heart back into a normal rhythm. Just in time, too, because he’s pretty sure he was about to vomit and pass out.

“Would you like to come inside, Dean?”

Fuck yes; like music to his goddamn ears. “Please.”

Cas backs up and welcomes Dean inside, tugging his robe tighter around his lithe frame. Everything looks the same, not that Dean expected it to be any different after only a few weeks (or has it been a month already? He’s not sure) but it settles the last of the queasiness in his stomach. It’s good to know that Balthazar didn’t change things, that he didn’t disrupt the warmth that seeps out of every wall and floorboard in Cas’ house.

It still feels pretty awkward, but Dean considers this a win. He didn’t even think he’d make it past the doorframe, but here he is being guided to Cas’ couch and being offered a drink. They stop in the kitchen, Cas making a pot of coffee for the both of them to sip on, but Dean can’t tear his eyes away from the spot on the floor where they fucked like idiots. It was the last time they were here, the last time Dean felt like Cas really loved him, and he can’t get those final images out of his head.

Cas working over him in a desperate sweat. Dean taking it and begging for more.

He wonders if he’ll ever get to have that again.

“Here,” Cas says, handing Dean a mug of coffee. Cas looks at his mouth again, frowning, then grabs a washcloth and wets it in the sink. He wipes Dean’s face clean, and it’s kind of weird and intimate but he doesn’t tell Cas to stop. He winces when Cas wipes over the tender flesh that Lisa slapped, and Cas notices, stopping. He tosses the rag in the sink and grabs his own cup, then guides Dean into the living room.

Dean sits, and for just a brief moment he’s left to wonder how much distance Cas will put between them until he sits down beside Dean, only a couple of feet between them on the couch. Hope swells in him again, and that optimistic side of him lets it happen. Cas is sitting near him, and it’s another thing Dean can honestly say he wasn’t expecting.

“Cas, I…we need to talk,” Dean starts, his voice reluctant and scared. This is the hardest part, admitting what he’s feeling and what he wants. So many new things are happening and his brain is still struggling to catch up.

Cas looks nervous now too, leaning back as if he’s afraid Dean’s words could actually reach out and gut him. “Okay,” he says, quietly.

Dean hesitates and filibusters by sipping on his coffee, looking around the living room. Dammit, there’s no way God spared his balls from pain and torture just to have Dean lose them the moment he speaks to Cas. Dean sits up straighter, reminding himself that he’s a man and he can do this, then says, “I have to go to California. Ruby is dead.”

“Oh,” Cas breathes, and it’s a mixture of shock and apprehension. “Is Sam alright?”

“Yeah,” Dean replies, and for the most part it’s true. Sam being missing isn’t exactly anything new, nothing to run to the media about, he’s been practically missing for years and Dean found him easily enough the first time. “I’m hoping with Ruby gone, he’ll be willing to come back home.”

Cas nods. “I think that’s wise. I know he cared for Ruby, so he may need some help to recover from that.”

“Mm hmm,” Dean agrees, because he’s still too chicken to say anything else. His hands are trembling, and he wishes he could blame it on the caffeine, but Cas can see right through him like always.

“What’s wrong?” Cas asks, and it’s almost too much. Half of Dean wants to throw himself on Cas, the other half wants to run and hide beneath the nearest rock.

“Sorry,” Dean mumbles, “it’s been a rough day.”

Cas sets his mug down on the coffee table and scoots closer, pulling Dean into a hug. He lets himself be held, and wraps his arms around Cas in return. He has to fight the urge to hold him tighter, to rub his stubble against Cas’ neck or start kissing him. The hug settles him though, thankfully. It was exactly what Dean needed. The simple fact that Cas still smells like a library is enough to make him feel at home.

“I want you to come with me,” Dean blurts, slightly muffled by Cas’ robe. The hands on Dean’s back go still, and he can feel the muscles in Cas’ body go stiff and tense.

Cas gently pulls away from the hug, his brows knitting together in confusion and deep concentration. He’s thinking about something, probably how to let Dean down easy. But Dean isn’t Lisa, he’s not going to freak out and start attacking him, he just wants an answer either way.

“I shouldn’t have asked,” Dean concedes, not wanting to push Cas further away.

“No, Dean, it’s fine, I just…I don’t know what to say,” Cas explains, looking away and dragging a hand over his face. “I haven’t decided yet, you know, about us.”

It’s not a flat out rejection. Dean can work with that.

“It doesn’t have to be like that, okay? I promise I won’t touch you or anything, I won’t even look at you without your permission. We can get separate rooms, separate bills, whatever you want,” Dean pleads, trying not to sound as hollow and desperate as he feels. He means it, too, he’ll do whatever Cas wants if he actually agrees to go.

“It’s not just that, Dean. It’s…” Cas trails off, watching Dean’s hands. Dean ignores the pause, focusing on the way Cas looks longingly at Dean’s lap. It’s nothing sexual, it’s just where Dean’s hands are, resting on his upper thighs as his nails nervously scratch over the jean fabric.

Dean acts on a hunch and slowly reaches for Cas’ hand. He laces their fingers together but keeps it as casual as possible, keeps his hands still and steady and doesn’t push it any further.

Cas rubs his thumb over Dean’s hand, and it takes every ounce of his willpower not to do it back. He doesn’t want Cas to feel pressured or lured into this, he wants Cas to feel safe and accepted in his presence.

Then Cas leans forward and presses a soft, almost feather-like kiss to Dean’s lips.

“I love you,” Cas says, gripping Dean’s hands tighter when he pulls away from the kiss, “but this is never going to work if you’re not honest with me.”

Dean searches his brain, wondering what he lied to Cas about that would cause him to say that, coming up empty handed. It’s possible he’s too distracted by the wet tingle on his lips, but he doesn’t have to worry long because Cas continues.

“You have always been so closed off, I can barely understand what you’re thinking or feeling because you rarely tell me. You have opened up a lot since I first met you, Dean, but it seems like you still won’t let me in.”

It hurts to hear, because it’s true. Dean doesn’t want to admit it, he doesn’t even really want to acknowledge it. He’s let Cas in closer than anyone else, but Cas is saying it’s still not enough. Dean’s willing to do anything within his power if it means having Cas back, but opening up even more is something he’s never done before, doesn’t know how to do.

“Whatever you want,” Dean swears, his heart aching under the weight of the promise, “I’ll try to do that, really, but it’s not a literal door I can just open. I’ll be honest, I’ll tell you whatever you want to know, but I can’t promise that I’ll like it. I can’t promise it will be easy.”

It must have been the right thing to say, because Cas’ cheeks tint pink and he’s smiling. He looks hopeful, happy, nodding at Dean’s words. “I understand. I wasn’t expecting you to accept that condition so quickly, though,” Cas huffs a small laugh and relaxes back into the couch.

“I don’t want to lose you,” Dean admits, his voice going quieter. “I’m sorry I fucked everything up. I’ll prove it, ask me anything,” he challenges, feeling a surge of bravery. His heart picks up a faster pace and he’s nervous as Hell, but he can do this. He can prove himself to Cas.

Cas thinks it over for a moment, probably going through a list of questions he’s stockpiled since they’ve been together, but then he asks the one question that Dean doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to answer.

“Why do you harbor so much guilt over your mother’s death?”

It’s a punch to the gut, worse than taking Lisa’s knee to his thigh, worse than when Benny kicked him and pissed on him and left him for dead.

Fuck, he’s going to lose Cas over this. He can’t answer the question, and even if he could, the answer would be enough to scare Cas away for good. Dean can’t possibly be this stupid, he can’t believe he just set himself up for failure.

Dean can feel the panic attack building in his gut, can feel his hands shaking and his skin flushing with sweat and heat. “B-Because, I…” he starts, then tries to catch his breath. “I can’t, I’m sorry.”

He buries his face in his hands and forces the tears back down. He just failed the first test of Cas’ trust and turned himself into a liar, a coward.

“It’s okay,” Cas assures, rubbing Dean’s back, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked that," he says, echoing Dean's earlier sentiment. 

Cas’ hands are warm and firm against him, comforting and calming him down. Dean feels like a complete and total failure. He really fucked things up with Lisa, now he’s fucking things up even worse with Cas. He should just leave for California already and forget the fantasy that he and Cas will ever be together.

“Dean,” Cas says, firmly and loud, “stop beating yourself up over this. I asked a question I shouldn’t have. You don’t have to answer that if you don’t want to. I just want you to trust me, that’s the only point I’m making. I’m sorry.”

Dean shakes his head. “I do trust you, Cas. I just can’t, not that. Ask something else, please. I can do this.”

Now Cas is the one shaking his head, rubbing relaxing circles over his shoulders. “You don’t have to prove yourself right now, Dean. I believe you. We can take it slow, there’s no rush. We did it once, we can do it again, right?”

Dean laughs, and holy shit it feels good to smile. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

Cas takes a deep breath, then picks up his coffee and takes an oversized gulp. He keeps one hand on Dean’s back, letting the simple touch keep them connected. “When are you leaving for California?”

“Tonight.”

Cas almost chokes on his coffee. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

There’s a long beat of silence while they awkwardly stare at each other, Dean waiting for Cas to decide whether or not he’s going to go while Cas shifts uncomfortably on the couch. Dean knows he doesn’t deserve to have Cas come, that he doesn’t deserve to have a second chance, but he’s going to take it if he can and make everything right.

He’s not sure exactly how he’s going to do that on a road trip, but they fell in love once on the road and he knows they can do it again. “Come with me,” Dean repeats, and he can see Cas’ resilience start to fade. “I need you.”

Cas closes his eyes and rests his head on Dean’s shoulder. It’s not fair how good Cas looks even when he’s tired, wrapped up in a robe and worried about their uncertain future. “Okay,” Cas finally says, giving in. “I’ll go.”

“Really?” Dean beams, saying it louder than he should and nearly scaring Cas off his shoulder. Cas laughs, pleased with Dean’s obvious excitement.

“Yes, really.”

“Fuck yeah!” Dean cries out, turning toward Cas and pulling him into a tight hug, tighter than he probably should. Cas doesn’t complain, he just smiles and returns the favor. He’s kind of surprised either of them can breathe at this point. “You have thirty minutes and then we’re hittin’ the road, okay?”

“At least give me an hour, I’m not leaving without a shower,” Cas insists, rising from the couch.

“Fine,” Dean says, winking at him as Cas walks away toward the bathroom.

This went much better than he expected.

Dean pulls out his cellphone and sends Lisa a quick text, asking if she’s okay and telling her that he’s heading out soon. He’s still mad at her, but that doesn’t stop him from worrying about whether or not she’s okay.

He hears the shower start, the familiar sound of water pouring over tile, and he lets himself breathe a sigh of relief. He can’t believe he gets to do this, that he actually gets a shot at fixing all the parts of his life that he’s broken. Dean might not be the greatest at relationships, but this one is worth stepping out of his comfort zone to mend. It’s worth the fear and anxiety he’s sure he’s going to experience during the trip, worth the effort it’s going to take to win Cas back.

Dean’s phone buzzes, and it’s Lisa. The text is simple, and says _Take care of yourself, Winchester_.

For once, he thinks everything is going to turn out okay.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for somewhat graphic description of fire and death in the italics. Skip the italics if you don't want to read it, but you might miss out on some plotty stuff.

_It’s dark, but the bottom of the staircase juts out into the living room like a pier, lit by the diffuse glow of orange flames._

_Dean thought fire was supposed to be red. That’s what everyone always told him, anyway. His preschool teacher had them play a special game to learn about colors, and when they learned about the color red, they colored pictures of fire trucks, apples, roses, ladybugs, and little flames with smiley faces on them. Warm, his teacher had said. Red is warm._

_They all must have been lying, he thinks, because fire isn’t red, not at all. It’s light, and closer to orange or yellow than anything else. Fast, too, spreading across the living room and jumping from fabric to fabric. It dances along the cool blue of the couch, the white of Mommy’s curtains, swallowing them whole and moving on. There’s something strange about the way it does that, how such a bright and blinding force can touch something and leave it darker and singed, scorched and black._

_Gold, he thinks. That’s what it is. Not red or orange or yellow, but a mighty gold tinged with flickering, ribbon-like lines of blood and ash._

_At first, his skin felt sweaty and gross, just like it does after he plays in the yard with Daddy or Jojo, but now it’s dry and tight and almost itchy. Mommy and Daddy are calling for him, but Dean is too scared to move. He’s hiding beneath the table, hiding from the threat of the golden death that’s eating the ceiling now, from the darkened corners of the kitchen where monsters are undoubtedly hiding, and from the thick curls of smoke reaching out for him with fat, fog-like fingers._

_“Dean!”_

_It’s Daddy coming down the stairs._

_“Dean! Goddammit, where are you?”_

_Daddy is crying. He’s holding Sammy in his arms, cradling him over one shoulder with a big, strong hand protecting his little head. Dean looks down at his own hand, small and lame, with a Batman Band-Aid wrapped around his thumb. Mommy says he will have big hands one day too._

_“I can’t find him!”_

_Dean wishes he had his T-Rex with him right now. Crunchy would know what to do, he always does, even though Mommy thought his name was silly. Dean knows better, though. Dinosaurs crunch things, not just with their big mouths and sharp teeth, but also with their feet when they walk across the Earth. You can’t be a big scary dinosaur and not step on leaves and trees, after all, can’t avoid crunching things when you were born to crunch._

_He wishes Crunchy could crunch the fire, too._

_“DEAN!”_

_Daddy found him. He grips a dining chair with his free hand and throws it out of the way, dropping to his knees and reaching under the table to grab at Dean’s hand. Dean’s still scared, but Daddy will know what to do. He tries to help, but his body feels limp and useless as Daddy pulls him out from under the table, muttering_ thank God, thank fucking God _, holding Dean tight against his chest._

_Daddy’s heart is beating fast, his shirt damp and warm, and Sammy’s little hand balls into a fist as it pulls on Dean’s hair._

_At least his teacher was right about one thing – fire is definitely warm. Too warm._

_And then they hear it, that sickening thud mimicking a bowling ball rolling down the stairs, a body thunking down every step and hitting the bannister along the way. Mommy’s body goes limp like Dean’s, her head twisted unnaturally to the side, limbs splayed and folded around her. Her eyes are wide but unfocused, rolling in their sockets, half-lidded and white. She twitches, little tremors rocking through her body, the only one of all four of them moving._

_Then she stops, and they’re all stock-still. Motionless, either from shock or fear or disgust, all except Sammy who started squirming and fussing. He can’t see Mommy, only the darkened kitchen over Daddy’s shoulder, but Dean can see everything. The slack weight of her open lips and the molasses-slow saliva oozing out, the blonde strands of hair obscuring her darkened cheeks and neck. She’s wearing a soft pink nightgown, or maybe white, but it’s rolled up and bunched over her chest and under her arms. Mommy’s belly is bare, scarred a little from stretch marks, her legs glossy with lotion._

_Daddy sucks in a sharp breath, setting Sammy down too quickly to be gentle, and rushes over to Mommy. Sammy is a writhing mess, screaming and crying with spit bubbles popping in the corners of his mouth, his chubby little arms reaching and jerking about. Dean wants to pick him up and hold him, but he doesn’t have big strong hands like Daddy, isn’t brave enough._

_But Daddy looks back at Dean, still hunched over Mommy’s body, yelling, “Take your brother outside as fast as you can!”_

_Dean tries. He lifts Sammy off the ground, but Sammy is heavy and wriggling like a worm, and Dean’s afraid he’s going to drop his baby brother. He’s afraid he’s going to drop him on the hard floor and then Sammy will be just like Mommy. He tries though, tries his hardest, and manages to carry his brother to the door. Dean stops, watching Daddy’s hands move over Mommy’s body, pushing on her chest._

_Daddy’s head snaps up. “Don’t look back! NOW, DEAN, GO!”_

_Dean does as he’s told. He jerks the front door open and runs, nearly tripping over the lumpy ground covered in a thin layer of snow. His feet are bare and he’s got nothing on but his new dinosaur pajamas, the ones he got earlier today at his birthday party, and they do nothing to protect him from the cold. Sammy’s worse off than Dean, clothed only in a onesie and nothing else, his diaper full and wet and leaking onto Dean’s shirt._

_He didn’t see Daddy again until after the firemen arrived, didn’t see Mommy until the funeral._

_“I didn’t mean to,” Dean cried, clutching at Daddy’s singed robe._

_“I know.”_

_“It’s my fault,” Dean was shaking, his hands cramping from holding his baby brother for so long._

_Daddy looks sick for a moment, his hand covering his mouth as his eyes squeeze shut. He looks like he’s going to puke or start crying, or maybe even both. After a moment, his head lifts as he surveys the house and all the firemen and police officers. Something changes then, and Dean could see it even if he was too small to understand what it was._

_“Yes,” Daddy finally says, looking away from Dean, “your fault.”_

* * * 

Dean bolts upright in bed, panting for breath and sweaty.

The darkness of the motel room is too much, too black and thick like a hoard of demons crouching around him. He can feel their eyes burning into him, raking over his flesh with the swirls of blood and ash snaking through their golden irises, crying out his name with hoarse, dry voices.

He reaches blindly for the lamp in a rush, his fingers searching for the damn button on the lamp that he knows is there. All motel rooms have lamps, dammit, except apparently this one. He’s disoriented, sick with fear and ghost-like sensations crawling over and through his body. It’s been so long since he’s had that dream, since he’s relived that awful memory, his gut feeling more like a gyroscope than an organ. He finally finds the switch and flicks the light on, banishing the bastards haunting his room, but the golden-eyed demons don’t flee into the night. They recede with the force of a vacuum sucking them in, back into Dean’s heart and mind where they’ve always been, always will be.

He’s alone in a shitty motel room, just him and the one bed and the bathroom fan he left on for a soothing background noise. His heart is beating heavily in his chest, not necessarily fast but with a panicked force that feels like it’s trying to break out of its cage. He tries to steady himself with a deep breath, but it doesn’t work. The only small mercy is that he’s not crying, which is what usually happened when he used to have these dreams regularly.

Dean can still feel the phantom licking of flames, the heat against his skin that dried him out and made him feel like chalk. He can still feel baby Sammy pulling his hair, John’s tight grip as he yanked Dean out from under the table, can still hear that weighty beat of his mom falling with every pulse of his heart. The sensations won’t leave him, won’t fade or subside even when he rubs his hands over his arms and thighs. It’s like being touched even though he says no, like someone is holding him down and forcing him to feel everything over and over again, whispering reminders in his ear that he’s helpless to stop it.

Fuck, it’s been so long since this happened that he’s forgotten just how stranded and weak the memories make him feel. Sam leaving them for Stanford had been enough to shift his subconscious into new territory, switching from fire laced nightmares to ones framed by abandonment and loss. Then Lisa left too, and it was enough to encase those fears in cement and sink them to the bottom of his internal well. Two, almost three years now of going without this particular dream, but it’s all crashing back and resuming its place in the forefront of Dean’s mind.

He’s nowhere nice enough to have a minibar, so he can’t even drink to ease the pain or the oncoming panic attack. Dean’s not having an attack right this moment, but he can feel it building. Panic attacks have a way of growing exponentially – at first it’s slow and subtle, more like a caress around the throat by a lover, but the moment it starts gaining momentum, it doubles over and over until the caress is crushing his windpipe, suffocating him until the last bubble of air is caught under the collapse of his throat. This panic attack hasn’t gained that moment yet, but it will. Dean just doesn’t know if he has minutes or hours before it happens.

It’s all because Cas asked that stupid question, isn’t it? Because Cas had to pry into that very personal part of his life that he shouldn’t have even known about. Quite frankly, Dean’s not even sure how Cas knew, how Cas had been able to somehow guess that Dean was responsible for his mother’s death.

Ruby knew it too, that bitch. Dean still hasn’t been able to figure that one out, how someone he had never met or even known about had that kind of leverage over him. His first thought was that Sam must have told her, but that doesn’t make sense. Sam was too young at the time to remember it himself, and no one ever told him the truth. If he knew, then he would have left much sooner. He would have kicked Dean’s ass and left him for dead.

Sam had called him a dead weight, a mindless soldier. Not a murderer, not a matricidal piece of shit.

And Cas…well, his question had been worded strangely. He didn’t ask why Dean killed his mom, didn’t ask what happened that night or how he did it. Cas asked him why he felt guilty about it, as if Dean was wrong for feeling all that guilt in the first place. It doesn’t make sense, but without all the right pieces, it’s a puzzle he’s not going to solve. He’s not interested in solving it, either. Dean would really just like to shove the whole puzzle box in the trash and pretend it doesn’t exist until everyone else has forgotten about it.

As scared as he is that Cas might know the truth, Dean still wishes that they could have at least gotten a room with two beds rather than two completely separate rooms. He’s alone and about to have a panic attack, no liquor or Nyquil or promise of relief. Dean wants to take a shower to wash away the fingered memories that are still poking at him, but he knows the steam would just remind him of the billowed smoke, would choke him just the same.

Dean doesn’t know if he can go through an entire week of this before they get to California.

Jessica had texted him an hour or so after they left Lawrence, telling him that they should wait until Ruby’s funeral to arrive. It makes sense, and Dean is glad that Jessica thought of it. With Sam missing, it’s a good guess that he’ll show up at Ruby’s funeral, and arriving any sooner could compromise that. As the daughter of the dean, Ruby’s death was highly publicized, and all the information about her funeral’s time and location were easy to find online. Drug addict or not, if Sam was really in love with her, he’d be there for her burial.

It’s just how Winchesters are, really. It’s wrong not to be there when someone you love is dropped into the Earth, folded under layers of dirt and rock and grass, no matter how hard it might be. It’s why the Winchester men have always been tall and broad, built to carry the burden of death on their shoulders.

It’s not just the nightmares, though. It’s waking up alone in a dark motel room knowing Cas is only a thin wall away. Cas paid for adjoining rooms, which was weird but a nice enough gesture, and they agreed to keep their joining doors unlocked, just in case. Dean’s not sure what Cas meant by ‘just in case’, but he figures this is probably it.

Except his alarm clock shows that it’s barely two in the morning. They left Lawrence late again, and decided to stop in Salina after they got Jessica’s text. It wouldn’t be fair to drag Cas all the way back to California and wake him up in the middle of the night, every night. He has an awful feeling that’s what’s going to happen, that the nightmares are back for good and he’ll never sleep right again, and Dean doesn’t want to put that load on anyone else. Especially not Cas, the man he’s trying to convince to take him back, the friend who agreed to come along and help even after the last trip had been such a disaster.

Even if they’re not really lovers right now, Dean still needs him as the friend Cas is willing to be.

The panic starts to pick up, and he can feel that tiny snowball building as it rolls around inside him. He doesn’t have a lot of time to get this under control, but maybe Cas won’t mind if he asks to go into his room. Is it too much to ask him if Dean can lay beside him? It’s true that they’ve had sex, but just because they’ve been intimate before doesn’t mean he has permission to use Cas as a body pillow whenever he wants.

But then there’s a knock on their joining door, and the point is moot.

Cas creaks open the door slowly, peeking in like he’s not sure what to expect. Dean is still sitting upright in his bed, topless and feeling self-conscious. He’s pretty sure Cas can’t see the demons swirling just beneath the surface of his flesh, but he was also pretty sure that Cas had no idea about Mary and Dean knows how that one turned out.

“Are you okay?” Cas asks, his voice rough with sleep. “You were making a lot of noise.”

Dean rewinds everything in his head, analyzing his movements and wondering what he did that was so loud it woke up Cas. He know he startled awake with a gasp, but other than that he’s just been sitting in bed and moping, trying to control his panic attack. “I was?”

Cas nods, entering the room and closing the door behind him. “I thought I heard you yelling.”

Shit. Dean hasn’t yelled in his sleep since he was a kid, since those first couple of years after the fire. He can’t see himself, but he knows he flushes red in embarrassment. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Cas assures, walking towards Dean’s bed and sitting on the edge. “Want to talk about it?”

_Yes, God, please_ , Dean thinks, followed quickly by _oh fuck no_.

In truth, Dean’s heart aches with the desire to tell someone what happened, to get that weight off of his chest, but the consequences would be too severe to be worth it. He wants someone to tell him that it’s okay, that he’s not evil or worthless or a cold-blooded killer. These weak moments don’t happen often, he hasn’t felt them since he and Lisa were together, but he’s good at pushing them back down when he needs to. Cas would never take him back if he knew the truth, would never look at Dean the same way again, and he doesn’t think he could handle that.

The question also feels like a test, and it nibbles on Dean’s conscience in a way that he can’t ignore. Cas said he wanted Dean to be more open, that he wanted more honesty and ‘story time’ than they had before. This could be Cas testing Dean’s willingness to oblige, his ability to tell the truth and fulfill his end of the bargain. The thought makes him sick, like he has to decide between Cas and The Secret.

“Not really,” Dean admits, because saying he doesn’t want to talk about it isn’t the same as _refusing_ to talk about it. It’s a shitty move, an easy way to cop out, but he needs Cas to stay with him for this trip and he can’t risk losing him already.

Cas’ hand moves slowly over Dean’s foot, a gentle caress. Cas doesn’t get up and leave, which is a good sign, but he does look a little disappointed by Dean’s avoidance of the subject. “We can talk about other things, if you’d like.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, completely on board with keeping Cas in his motel room.

Before Dean can do or say anything else, Cas carefully pulls back the covers and pushes Dean over, crawling into the bed beside him. It’s another mixed signal that Dean can’t seem to figure out, another confusing message that he’s afraid to look too deeply at or not deeply enough. Cas says he hasn’t made a decision, and he decided on two rooms instead of one, but he started crying the moment he thought Dean was ending things and then kissed him on the lips without any warning. Now he’s curled up in Dean’s bed, spooning him with his arms wrapped around Dean’s chest. It’s confusing as hell, but he doesn’t want to complain and ruin the moment.

Dean is shirtless, but Cas is wearing one of his usual cotton t-shirts that feels soft and warm against Dean’s back. It keeps the panic at bay, stops the building pressure in his chest, and makes him feel okay again. It’s worth the confusion, at least.

“Think of a favorite memory, something that always makes you happy. I’d love to hear it,” Cas suggests, his voice smoothing out with use but still low. Dean can feel Cas’ lips pressed against him, lingering over the tense muscles between his neck and shoulder. It’s not a kiss, not really, just a resting place for Cas’ mouth apparently. It feels nice, loving, and as much as Dean wants more, he knows he’s not going to get it.

Instead, Dean focuses his attention on Cas’ prompt, trying to think of a favorite memory. There aren’t many, and though that realization would normally plunge him further into his spiraling depression, it’s hard to be anything but content when he feels so safe in Cas’ arms.

“Leesville,” Dean says, letting the memory flood to the surface, flitting through the details once more. “Small town in Louisiana.”

Cas mumbles an acknowledgement, encouraging Dean to continue.

“I hated it there, but it was just outside an Army base and my dad wanted to stock up on some military gear. We were only supposed to be there a couple nights, but dad was sweet on a bartender he met and she wouldn’t put out right away; delayed us leaving for about a week. Sam kept running off though, he had just turned thirteen and that’s when his rebellious phase started,” Dean explains, laughing at himself for how terrible this memory must sound to an outsider.

But if Cas thinks it’s weird or too strange to be a happy memory, then he keeps it to himself. Dean can feel Cas’ mouth move into a smile.

“Anyway, dad told us that night that as soon as he got back to the motel, we were heading out. Sam was pissed because he didn’t have a chance to go to the roadside carnival, so when I was in the shower, he took off. Dad’s rule was always that he was leaving no matter what, if he said it was time to go, then it was time to go, and he wasn’t afraid to leave us behind. I didn’t want to leave without Sam, so I went looking for him. Sammy was a smart kid, smarter than me, so I didn’t see it for the trap it was. He hid behind the motel until I was gone, then went back into the room to wait for dad.”

“Oh,” Cas says, surprised by that bit of Dean’s story. Not everyone has had the benefit of being subject to Sam’s brilliant manipulations, especially after he hit puberty and decided he didn’t want to be a nomad anymore. Dean took the brunt of it, but he didn’t mind it as much as he would have if Sam had been taking it all out on John. Those two were always fighting, and Dean didn’t mind taking one for the team just so John wouldn’t lose it and kick them out of the motel or leave them behind somewhere and never come back.

“I went to the carnival to look for him, and I ended up meeting this cute girl named Jeannie,” Dean smiles, huffing a small laugh, “I guess you could say she was my real first taste of the south.”

Cas chuckles behind him, running his fingers over Dean’s chest. “Ah, a southern belle. I should have known your favorite memory would be about a beautiful girl.”

“It’s not my favorite memory,” Dean clarifies, his voice almost shaking at the admission, “it’s just a good one.”

Dean’s favorite memories, the ones he would rather die than lose, all involve either Mary or Cas. He doesn’t want to talk about Mary, doesn’t want to speak her name for fear of sullying it with his unworthy tongue, and he doesn’t want to make Cas uncomfortable by talking about all of his favorite memories with him.

“Alright, keep going,” Cas says, then yawns.

“It wasn’t even really about her, to be honest. She was great, and gorgeous too, but I was more worried about Sam and the possibility of dad leaving us behind. I couldn’t find him anywhere, I searched for hours, and when I got back to the motel I saw a note stuck under the door. Sam and dad had left without me.”

Cas squeezes Dean a little tighter at that, shaking his head. “What did you do? This doesn’t sound like a very good memory so far.”

“It was,” Dean promises, taking a deep breath. “At first, I wandered around and thought about asking people for change, but I didn’t want people to call the cops. I was only seventeen, and they would have stuck me in a foster home or something. I spent the first night sleeping in an empty, foreclosed home with garbage bags over the windows and graffiti on the walls. There were roaches, but it was better than nothing.”

When Cas presses his lips against Dean’s shoulder again, this time it really is a kiss.

“I went back to the carnival and found Jeannie. I made up a story about being kicked out for the night, I don’t even remember what I told her, but whatever it was she thought I was some kind of badass. She worked at one of the concession stands at the carnival, so she gave me free popcorn and some cotton candy.”

“That was nice of her,” Cas interrupts, planting another kiss on Dean’s shoulder. “I’m glad you had someone to help you through that.”

“Yeah, me too,” Dean agrees, remembering what it was like to be that hungry and alone. “When her shift was over, she brought me to her house and told her parents I was a friend from school and that we were going to study together. It was weird, you know, seeing her family. I knew how regular families lived, but I had never really seen it up close until then, not since I was little. Her parents were great, even invited me to stay for dinner.”

“It was the first time you felt like a part of a real family, isn’t it?” Cas guesses, and as usual, he’s completely right. Dean nods, rubbing his hand over the back of Cas’.

“Pretty much. Jeannie was so nice to me, and her parents made me feel right at home. They made this big fried chicken dinner, and everyone sat at the table and talked with each other. It was…it made me feel normal, even if it was only for that night. I didn’t have to worry about dad or Sammy, I only had to worry about myself and they treated me like a human being.”

“I’m sorry, Dean. I’m so sorry you had to live your life like that,” Cas shifts a bit until he’s more level with Dean’s body, his face in Dean’s hair and his lips just barely touching the shell of Dean’s ear. “I wish I could take all that pain away.”

“Don’t be,” Dean whispers, letting himself be held and touched. As much as he would love to erase all those terrible memories, as much as he would love to forget that bad things happen in the world, Dean can’t give up all those pieces of himself any more than he could give up an arm or a leg. Without the pain and suffering, Dean’s not even sure who he would be. They define so much of who he is, they compose the foundation of Dean’s entire identity, and without them he’d crumble like a Jenga tower riddled with gaps and holes.

“When did your dad come back for you?” Cas asks.

“A few days after that dinner. I had to start asking people for money, and I made enough to buy one or two meals a day, but a couple of soldiers felt bad for me and gave me a pack of cigarettes. I never smoked before that, but I learned that having something to occupy my hands and mouth made being hungry more tolerable.”

Cas laughs again, his breath puffing out against Dean’s ear. “I did always wonder how you ended up smoking.”

“Yeah, it’s a bad habit, but it was a lot better than being hungry or having to think about things too much. Even after my dad came back, it was nice to have an excuse to go outside somewhere by myself and just relax. My dad never told me not to, so I didn’t think it mattered.”

“He didn’t care that you started smoking?”

“No,” Dean sighs, trying to imagine what his family must look like to someone who doesn’t really understand it. “He didn’t have a lot of rules, but the rules he did have were enforced with an iron fist. He didn’t care where we went or what we did as long as we were back when he told us to be.”

Cas doesn’t say anything this time, just gently tilts his face until his nose is brushing over Dean’s nape in what can only be described as nuzzling. It does strange things to Dean’s heart, makes it skip more beats than it should, beating more like a flickering, dying bulb than a steady drum. His lips part with a quiet exhale as a shiver snakes down his spine, his skin pebbling and suddenly sensitive to everything touching his skin. The starchy sheets, the itchy comforter, the impossibly soft but firm hold that Cas has around him – he can’t help it, can’t help that everything simultaneously feels amazing and intrusive, like he’s been flipped inside out.

It’s too much, too good, and so damn confusing that Dean doesn’t know what the Hell to do with it all.

Cas is still nuzzling him, and Dean is pretty sure he can keep his baser instincts under control until Cas starts kissing him. It’s not like the small, comforting kisses he was getting before. They’re filled with intent, each one more sensual than the last, almost as if Cas is trying to seduce the freckles he knows are sprinkled over his neck and shoulders. Dean _wants_ , he wants it so badly that he’s about to turn over and steal those kisses for himself, but he knows he can’t. What he wants more than instant gratification is the promise of having this forever, and Dean’s afraid of fucking it all up by taking more than Cas is willing to give. He’ll just lay here and enjoy the moment, soak up the affection like medicine for his panic and nightmares.

It was a good plan, too, until Cas’ hand drifted lower, skimming the hem of Dean’s boxers.

Dean hesitates, unsure of what to do, his breath catching in his throat when he feels Cas’ excitement pressing into his lower back. Dean is pretty damn excited himself, aching for it, ready to engage in whatever this could be, but then that cricket jumps back to life out of fucking nowhere and crashes the party.

“Stop,” Dean breathes, angry that it came out sounding like a moan.

Cas freezes, then pulls away slowly, his hands retreating back up to Dean’s to hold him again. “I’m sorry,” Cas says, sounding just as breathless as Dean. “I’ll go back to my room if you want.”

“No,” Dean pleads, pulling Cas’ hands in close to his chest. “I don’t…I don’t want you to stop, but I’m getting some really mixed signals. You gotta tell me what you want, Cas. You gotta tell me what to do.”

There’s no resistance when Dean pulls Cas’ hands in tight, when Dean brings a hand to his lips so he can kiss Cas’ knuckles, but there’s a distinct shift in the way Cas is holding himself against Dean’s body. Before, their connection had been fluid and organic, one body instead of two, but now Cas is rigid and there’s a distinct separation between the two of them despite still being pressed up against each other.

“I’m sorry,” Cas repeats, and sends a chilling fear into Dean’s chest. “When I’m around you, it’s difficult to remember that we’re…” Cas trails off, searching for the right word, “…on a break, I suppose. I love you, so much.”

It angers Dean more than it probably should, more than he has any right to be, but the whole situation feels off. Cas’ body against his no longer feels warm and safe, but more like two strips of Velcro hooks scraping over each other. He scoots forward out of Cas’ hold, which is an awkward movement to do even when he’s not feeling twisted up and confused, then sits up on the bed and holds a hand over his heart, trying to convince it to stop freaking out.

“I don’t get it,” Dean confesses, bitter, “You know how I feel, I told you I’d wait and that I’d be on my best behavior, but then you do stuff like this and all my wires get crossed.”

Cas pushes himself up slowly, sitting against the headboard beside Dean. He sighs, looking blearily at the wall. “I am scared to death of you, Dean Winchester.”

That’s even more confusing than what Cas had been doing before, even more of a mind-fuck than he thought possible. Yeah, he hurt Cas when he ignored him for two weeks and he deserves to be reminded of that every day until he dies, but he didn’t realize Cas was actually _afraid_ of him. It makes him feel sick, and those swirling demons threaten to come up with his last meal.

“I know I fucked up, I learned my lesson, okay? I won’t hurt you like that again.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Cas replies, nearly cutting Dean off before he could finish. “You are so frustratingly perfect that it drives me crazy. I am always afraid of losing you.”

Dean keeps his mouth closed, the anger rising like bile in his throat. He only ever felt that particular fear once, only ever wanted to keep one person away out of fear of loving them too deeply, too much. It had been Cas, way back when they first met, and Dean knew even then that it was going to be something much bigger and greater than he’d ever experienced. He was so afraid of loving Cas and losing him that he smashed that Z16 with a tire iron. It did him no good, of course. He went and fell in love with the blue-eyed, misguided hero anyway.

Knowing that doesn’t stop him from being angry, though. Cas has no right to equate those feelings, to mirror those same fears. Cas is perfect and brilliant, gorgeous and wonderful. Dean is nothing. He’s just a pretty boy with eyes like speckled moss and lips that would be better suited on a girl. It’s all he’s ever had to offer the world, and he knows from experience that it’s not enough, never has been. He might be Cas’ centerfold fantasy on the outside, but there’s nothing inside his vapid soul that he could possibly offer a man like Cas, that could scare him so deeply from falling back in love with him.

“No one has ever used that word to describe me before,” Dean half-heartedly jokes, effacing himself.

“What, perfect?” Cas asks, clarifying Dean’s flippant remark. Dean nods, and Cas just shakes his head. “You are. You have no idea, but you really are.”

“I’m not,” Dean corrects, feeling cheeky and sarcastic. “I’m not. You have no idea, but I’m really not.”

He meant it is a joke, but when he speaks the words out loud, Dean can feel them resonating with truth. They fill the air around him, reminding him of all the bad things he’s done, of all the things Cas still doesn’t know about, including The Secret that may surface much sooner than he would like it to.

Cas takes Dean’s hand in his, lacing their fingers together. This time the touch isn’t confusing or sensual, it’s just a symbol of understanding, of sympathy. “You’re an old soul, Dean. You just have this way about you that speaks to me, that makes me feel at home. I know you hate yourself for so much, but it’s like…it’s almost as if your soul has lived a thousand lives, in a thousand different ways. All that hatred you feel for yourself, all that resentment, it makes you love people that much deeper, that much purer. You’re like the ugly duckling that grew into a beautiful swan, but you refuse to look at your reflection to see the change. You refuse to see the truth.”

_No_ , Dean thinks, _that’s all wrong_. He’s still that same old ugly duck, the only difference is that he learned how to put on a swan’s mask so he could fit in, so people wouldn’t see the hideous monster hiding beneath.

“You’re denying it right now, I can tell,” Cas says, interrupting Dean’s inner monologue. “Part of your charm, I suppose. You’d be an arrogant asshole if you knew just how wonderful you are. Lisa did have a point that night, when she showed up. Everyone wants a piece of you, but there’s not enough to go around.”

Dean doesn’t want to talk about this anymore. He just wanted his panic attack to go away and that mission has already been accomplished. Still, he’s angry with himself for being so confused, for not understanding why Cas insists on this break when they both clearly want each other. “And yet the people I try to give myself to don’t want me. I’ve already told you I want us to be together, but you’re the one saying no.”

Cas winces at that painful truth, nodding. “I want you, Dean, but I’m not impenetrable. Losing you felt worse than when my family disowned me. What if we get to California, and something terrible happens and you end up leaving me again?”

There’s truth entwined with Cas’ words, and Dean thinks he can start to understand Cas’ position a little better. Dean can promise something all he wants, it doesn’t mean it’s always going to be true. He proved that once already when he let Cas in the first time, only to shove him out again without a parachute. Dean knows the feeling. He knows that’s how it will be with Sam, that even if he does manage to get his brother home and safe, they won’t just fall back into their old brotherly routine. Dean couldn’t even consider the idea of being with Lisa again, not after what she did to him. It hurts, but it makes sense.

“I won’t,” Dean says anyway, feeling a bit defiance toward his own linear thought process. “But I know what you mean.”

They sit there for a few minutes in silence, awkward, still holding hands. Dean’s not sure if it’s because neither of them is willing to let the other one go, or if it’s because they’re both too chicken shit to do anything else.

Then Cas slowly pulls his fingers away from Dean’s as his legs slide off the bed. Dean doesn’t want him to go, doesn’t want this moment to end. At least when Cas is here, he can pretend they’re still together and keep the demons away.

“I should go,” Cas says, his voice thick with reluctance. Dean wants to beg him to stay, and if he’s not mistaken, the way Cas is lingering at the bedside tells him that Cas wouldn’t mind being asked. But as much as Dean wants to, he can’t. Tonight was a little too heavy for both of them, especially now they’re both on the same page. They love each other, but only time will assure them that the other isn’t leaving, won’t leave them behind. Cuddling and pretending that it’s just a friendly show of affection won’t do either of them any good.

“Maybe we can start over,” Dean says, ignoring Cas’ statement for now. Cas lifts a brow at that, and waits for him to continue. “I mean, we both know it’s not going to work if we just keep trying to shove ourselves right back in where we were. We can’t do that, I get it now. But, maybe instead of trying to do this whole…awkward friendship thing, we can just start over. We have a whole week before we have to be at the funeral, so there’s no rush like there was last time. I mean, can I – I’d like to take you on a date tomorrow. A first date.”

Dean looks up at Cas with pleading, nervous eyes. His heart swings in his chest like a ship caught in a storm, and if he didn’t know any better, Dean would think he was drowning in that storm, too. Cas just stands there for a moment, looking back into Dean’s owlish eyes with curious, questioning intent. He looks scared, almost as much as Dean is, but then something settles over him and Cas smiles.

“I’d like that very much.”

For just a flicker of a moment, Dean remembers when Cas clutched his jacket outside of the garage, when Cas was red and nervous and asked him out on a date. Cas definitely had the bigger balls back then, making the first move and putting himself out there. The least Dean can do is return the favor, to wear the big balls for once.

It’s not exactly what Dean wanted, but it’s a step in the right direction, a light on the horizon.

“Goodnight, Dean,” Cas says, walking toward their shared door and closing it behind him, separating them again with the motel wall.

Dean’s glad that for once, his dick didn’t do the talking. He’s still pissed at himself for stopping what could have been another mind-blowing round of sex, but this is better. Taking Cas on a date, having the opportunity to repair all the broken links between them is so much more than a quick romp they would later deem to be a mistake. He’s got to keep his mind on the long term goal, the big picture, his happily ever after.

It doesn’t stop him from jerking off and cleaning himself up with a rough hotel towel, though.

When he’s finally laying back in bed, alone with only the bathroom fan to keep him company, he tries to shut out all thoughts of his nightmare. Dean tries to focus on the way Cas felt against his back, on the nuzzling and the good memory and even their somewhat depressing talk. Dean’s willing to pretty much think about anything except his mom, dead and crumpled on the floor, twisted like his gut and his heart and his mind.

That night, Dean falls asleep with the light on.


	26. Chapter 26

“Why do you have so much beef jerky?”

“What?”

“Beef jerky. There appears to be a lifetime supply of it in your duffel bag.”

Dean turns his head toward the back of the Impala where Cas is sifting through his bag, a humorous look of disbelief written in Cas’ smile as he pulls out a wad of packaged jerky strips in his hand.

“Protein, dude,” Dean says, knocking the jerky from Cas’ hand and giving him an irritated glare. “What are you goin’ through my bag for, anyway?”

Cas chuckles, but it sounds more like a snort. He ignores the jerky and Dean’s grimace as he goes back through the duffel, searching for something. “In our rush to leave, I forgot to bring something to do. I don’t want to be bored while we drive.”

“And you think the driver would bring something to do while he’s driving?” Dean says, dropping the scowl for something more like a smirk. Cas rolls his eyes, but then he spots something and shoves the jerky and clothing aside, pulling out that damn book of Sam’s that Dean forgot he brought along. The brief moment of excitement that had been on Cas’ face fades when he realizes what it is.

“Oh,” Cas murmurs, dropping it back into the duffel. “I was hoping it was something I haven’t read yet. I didn’t realize you were still reading it, though.”

“Uh, kinda,” Dean admits, taking it from Cas’ hand. He looks over the worn and frayed cover, trying to remember why he brought the book along at all. He’s been reading it off and on, mostly off, and has barely made it halfway through. “Haven’t made it very far yet.”

Dean drops the book absentmindedly in the back, not in the mood to discuss the book or anything else quite that heavy. He’s already nervous, the cricket quivering and hopping around in his gut like the slimy little bastard it is. He’s spent hours on the book, looking for some kind of hint or clue about Sam that probably doesn’t exist. Their lives aren’t parallel to those who suffered through that particular event in history, and even though Sam highlighted one paragraph that made Dean feel sick, that’s probably all there was to it.

Cas doesn’t protest, letting the book fall behind Dean’s seat somewhere on the floorboard. Dean does feel kind of bad, though. This is the second time Cas is being dragged across the states on a trip that doesn’t really have anything to do with him, letting himself get tangled up in a webby mess that’s not his responsibility at all, and to top it off the poor guy has to sit bored in the car the entire time. Dean is used to silent car rides, so used to filling up the time with his own inner monologue that he forgets most people need more than their imagination to pass the time.

He tries to think of something Cas would enjoy doing, or how far away the nearest book store is that they could stop at, but they’re somewhere between Colby and Burlington, Kansas, which means it’s probably going to be a while.

“We could play truth or dare,” Dean jokes, and swallows back a nervous lump when Cas smiles. He was only trying to lighten the mood, to distract them both from Sam’s stupid book, but he forgot that Cas is all about playing the honesty game these days, and a game of truth or dare would give him the perfect opportunity to ask questions that Dean has to answer.

“Well, as much as I would love to, you have the clear advantage,” Cas laughs, folding his arms over his chest. “There’s not much I can dare you to do while you’re driving.”

“True,” Dean breathes, relieved, hoping that’s the end of that, but obviously Cas has other ideas.

“I wouldn’t mind the truth portion of it, though. We could take turns asking each other questions. Could be fun,” he lifts his eyebrow with a smirk, like the suggestion is a dare itself and Dean would be chicken not to accept. As much as Dean isn’t a fan of answering questions about his personal life, and as scared as he is that Cas might ask more questions about his mom, he really does want Cas back in his life and this might be a good way to do it.

“Fine,” Dean groans, relenting. Cas seems pretty happy about it though, especially when he stretches his left arm out over the back of Dean’s seat, letting his fingers play in the soft hair on Dean’s nape.

“Where are you taking me on our date today?” Cas asks, his fingers getting a little firmer until it feels like Dean is getting a neck message.

“Is that your first question?” Dean grins, feeling cheeky.

Cas rolls his eyes. “Sure, if you’d like it to be.”

Dean has to think for a moment, because even though he asked Cas out on a date last night, he hasn’t actually thought about it beyond the fact that it was going to happen. He just figured that they could go someplace like a diner, wherever they ended up for the night, but it sounds pretty lame when he thinks about it like that.

“I was going to let you pick,” Dean lies smoothly, ignoring the knowing look on Cas’ face. He turns up the volume just slightly on the radio, letting the familiar rock music soothe his nerves and fill his Baby with a subtle background noise.

Dean didn’t get a lot of sleep, and the images of his nightmare still flash occasionally in front of him regardless of his valiant attempts to think about anything and everything else. Fuck, he’s not just nervous, he’s downright petrified of this trip and what it could do to him, what it could mean for him and Sammy, and even him and Cas. The last trip had ended so badly that he promised himself he’d never come back, that Sammy would have to deal with whatever shit storm he brewed up on his own, but just like the good little soldier his brother accused him of being, Dean is right back where he was six months ago.

It’s even harder with the nightmares and the flashbacks, even scarier with Cas in the passenger seat and the awkward, undefined relationship sitting in the space between them. They’re starting over, sure, but now that it’s the next day and his brain isn’t clouded with the foggy memories of his mother’s death, he’s not quite sure what starting over means.

Cas is still rubbing the back of his neck like they’re intimate lovers rather than two guys out on a first date. Dean knows their situation is different, but after everything he’s been through in the last year, he’s learned the value of being completely upfront rather than hiding behind vague, ambiguous statements. He’s been open with Cas, and as far as he knows, Cas has been open with him. Dean supposes in the face of all that, a little game of ‘truth-or-truth’ isn’t such a big deal.

From the corner of his eye, Dean sees that Cas is watching him carefully, expectantly. Dean turns to glance at him, giving him a half-smile because it still feels weird to be watched too intently. “It’s your turn, Dean,” Cas prompts, and Dean almost blushes under the pressure.

Because, as everyone knows, asking someone a harmless question is serious business.

“Uh,” Dean pauses, trying to think of something to ask. He knows a lot about the beautiful, dark-haired man beside him, mostly because Cas has never been one to keep secrets, but he’s got to make the questions good or this will get boring fast. “Okay, I gotta know…after the way the last trip went, I really didn’t think you’d come along,” Dean says, realizing too late that it wasn’t exactly a question. Cas seems to understand though, because he sits up a little straighter and tilts his head just like he always used to.

Cas just shrugs. “I knew it wasn’t going to be easy for you, and I didn’t want you to have to go alone. Oh, and you almost died last time, so I wanted to make sure you’d be okay. I do love you, after all.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, acknowledging the answer without thinking too hard about it. They’re starting over fresh but that doesn’t mean they can just hit the reset button on their feelings, too.

“My turn,” Cas smiles, and Dean hopes he doesn’t start narrating the damn game like a play-by-play. It feels silly and childish enough as it is. “What did you do for those two weeks, when I didn’t hear from you? I know you were going through a rough time, but no one seemed to know what you were doing or where you were.”

Guilt prickles at Dean’s chest, and that horribly sour taste floods the back of his throat again. His first instinct is to crack a joke and skate over the question with a fake, fluid smile, but Cas deserves to know. Honesty is what Cas wants, it’s the only key back into his locked up heart, and as cheesy as all those metaphors are, Dean has to man up and tell the truth.

Dean leans forward just a bit, escaping Cas’ warm and tender hands. He loves the way Cas’ fingers feel on his skin, but he doesn’t quite deserve to be touched. “I drank a lot,” he says first, trying to remember all the details from those weeks drowned in whiskey. “I wasn’t home much. I’d buy liquor and find somewhere outside to drink. I smoked a lot, too. I just…I didn’t want to be conscious, I guess, or around anything that reminded me of what I lost – or, what I thought I lost. And that shit Lisa said hit home a little too hard and at one point I considered just ending it all. I mean…ugh, I probably sound like one of those whiney pre-teens, don’t I?”

Dean keeps his eyes focused straight forward, afraid to look in Cas’ direction. It’s nothing that Cas didn’t already know, or at least nothing that Cas couldn’t have guessed for himself, but Dean still hates to admit those weak moments. He’s not a coward, and he’d never actually check out early like that, but he’d be lying if he said it never crossed his mind. Hell, Dean’s fantasized about it more than he cares to admit, toyed around with the idea of not having to wake up in Hell every morning, but then Cas came along and made things better, made them bearable.

“No, you don’t,” Cas says, and his hand finds Dean’s neck again, not letting him run away from the gentle touch. “You’re human, Dean. Sometimes I think you forget that.”

Dean doesn’t forget. He just knows that most humans don’t go around fucking up as much as he does. They don’t kill their mothers and fathers and drive their brothers into doing drugs.

“That answer the question?” Dean asks, finalizing the issue and moving on. Cas nods, and waits for Dean to ask a question of his own.

Just as Dean suspected, their stupid and innocent game of telling the truth isn’t just about the easy stuff, isn’t really fun or light or relaxed, but he’s not freaking out or slipping into a panic attack like he thought he might. It actually feels kind of nice to talk to Cas about these things, and so far Cas hasn’t made him feel judged or weird about his answers. Sure, their game is still just starting, but he wasn’t expecting to feel this…okay.

It’s that thought that gives Dean a little bravery boost, makes him more willing to ask Cas deeper questions too. “So…how do you _really_ feel about the baby? I mean, I thought for sure you’d want nothing to do with me after Lisa showed up, but here we are anyway and you haven’t really said much about it,” Dean stumbles, tripping over his tongue as usual.

Cas’ eyebrows furrow, his face settling into something more serious, and Dean worries that he’s crossed a line. “Sorry if that was too personal,” he adds, trying to watch Cas’ expression and the road at the same time.

“Oh, it’s fine,” Cas assures, but his face is still worried. “I guess I didn’t realize we hadn’t talked more about this, you know?”

“It _is_ kind of important,” Dean mumbles, looking only at the road now. “If we’re going to work things out between us, that means you’ll be in the baby’s life, but I want you to know I don’t expect anything from you, okay? It’s my kid, and you don’t have to do anything you don’t want.”

Cas sighs, still kneading Dean’s nape in that familiar way that makes him want to melt into his seat. It takes a couple of minutes for Cas to work out his answer in his head, but he finally takes a deep breath and says, “I’ve always wanted kids, Dean. I grew up in a big family, and I always pictured having a big family of my own. I’m gay, as you know. Not bisexual or curious or anything, but very much homosexual. That means I’ve always known any of my children would be adopted, or at the very least, it would be unlikely that they were biologically mine.”

Dean listens, and he’s pretty sure he understands where Cas is going with this.

“You having a child with someone else doesn’t bother me. You didn’t cheat on me, you’re not in love with her anymore, so from my perspective it’s the equivalent of having a step-child, I suppose. If you already had a child with her before I met you, I would have still fallen in love with you and been as involved as you wanted me to be. I’ve wanted to be a father for a long time, and if you don’t mind me saying so, I’m excited at the idea of being a parent with you.”

Now Dean is really blushing, the heat settling over him like honey, cloying and warm.

He never really pictured himself as father material, even though he did like the idea of being a dad. Dean just never thought that was going to be in his future, and having a son due in a matter of weeks still feels surreal and almost unbelievable. He’d fallen in love with Cas so quickly, so wholly, that the possibility of having his own biological kid seemed unlikely, just like Cas said. Dean is afraid to admit it, even to himself, but he’s excited at the idea of being a parent with Cas, too.

Cas doesn’t give him a chance to respond before he segues into the next question. “Do you think you’ll want more children?”

It’s a loaded question, one that Dean isn’t sure how to answer. It’s one of those iceberg questions with ninety percent of the subtext hiding beneath the surface, and Dean’s afraid of fucking things up by saying the wrong thing. Cas is really asking if Dean wants children _with_ him, right? He’s asking if they’ll be together forever, if they’ll live in the same home and raise some kids together like a real family.

Dean wants that, he really does, but he has no idea what kind of father he’s going to be. He has no idea if he should subject more tender lives to the Winchester lifestyle.

“I don’t know,” Dean finally answers, feeling like an asshole. “I should probably wait and see how much I fuck up with this first one, right? I mean, I like the idea of being a dad and all, but what if I’m no good at it? I don’t want to ruin any more lives than I already have.”

The hand on Dean’s neck stills, the pressure lessening until Cas’ fingers are just resting there, apprehensive. Cas shifts his weight, his face looking sour. Yeah, Dean probably fucked that one up nice and good.

“Dean,” Cas starts, his voice firm and serious, “you haven’t ruined anyone’s life.”

“You don’t know that,” Dean snaps back, blanching when he realizes what he’s just admitted to, what he’s brought into the conversation. Cas may not know it, but Dean knows it’s his fault that his mother is dead, that his father became an alcoholic and died too, that Sammy didn’t get to have a normal life. “There’s a lot of blood on my hands, okay? You wouldn’t be in this car if you knew how much.”

Fuck. This is exactly what Dean was trying to avoid, but for some reason he’s the only one who’s been pushing the conversation in this direction. He brought this up, he cornered himself and spoke of his own free will. The cricket isn’t helping either, chirping away like a noisy bastard, but it’s not telling him to stop. It’s nagging him to keep going, to tell Cas, to stop playing Atlas and unload the burden he’s been carrying around for twenty years.

Cas is giving him this loving, understanding look, and that only makes this whole situation worse. Fuck Cas for being so open and accepting. Fuck him for being so consistent and warm and wonderful, for making Dean feel like maybe he can finally confess and not have the world come crashing down around him.

Despite all of it, Dean can’t be mad at Cas. He can’t even feel irritated. It’s almost like Dean subconsciously knew this little game would dig up his secret and he did it anyway.

“You can tell me,” Cas breathes, his blue eyes wide and pleading. “I’ll never judge you.”

Dean can feel the sting of tears budding along his lashes, his body betraying him once again. He can’t drive like this, can’t focus on anything but the way Cas keeps looking at him, looking _into_ him, and holy shit, this might be it.

He’s actually going to tell someone The Secret.

Well, he would if he could breathe.

Dean pulls over to the side of the road, and it feels strangely reminiscent of the last time he and Cas did this. He had pulled over to tell Cas a secret, to tell him that he was in love, and they ended up fucking for the first time like a couple of teens after prom. Shit, is this really where Dean should confess? Somewhere Cas can’t actually walk away and leave him for good? That doesn’t seem fair, he doesn’t want to trap Cas like that, but something is happening to Dean that he can’t control and can’t stop. The Secret is bubbling up, rising to the top, crawling out from the back of Dean’s throat and sitting heavy on his tongue.

Cas resumes the calming massage on Dean’s nape right on cue, and Dean starts to get his breathing under control. He takes a few deep breaths, centering himself, then sits up straight and shrugs out of Cas’ touch. He knows Cas won’t want to touch him after this.

But it has to be said. They can’t talk about a future and children and marriage or anything else that this game of truth-or-truth is bringing up until Cas knows.

“Cas, I…are you sure you want to know? You’ll…you won’t want to be with me. Maybe we should wait until we’re somewhere you can at least distance yourself from me after I tell you.”

Dean’s heart was racing, but the way Cas keeps looking at him calms him down. He doesn’t know how Cas does it, how Cas can suddenly make Dean’s body surrender and relax, but he’s grateful for the numbing, reassuring effects of Cas’ presence. 

“I doubt that very much. You don’t have to tell me, but if you do, I promise I will still love you afterward,” Cas says, steady and strong and sure.

“How can you know that?” Dean challenges, wanting to be angrier than he is, wanting to feel the familiar sense of guilt and shame to build the protective walls he’s used to. “How can you know you’ll still love someone before they tell you something terrible?”

“Because my love for you isn’t contingent on your past,” Cas quips, still speaking calmly, almost as if he’s a damn therapist. “Whatever you think you’ve done is already a part of who you are. You telling me won’t change that, won’t change _you_.”

Dean thinks about that for a minute, and realizes Cas is right. Dean Winchester is a sum of everything he’s been through, of all his thoughts and experiences and mistakes. He’s already done the horrible thing he’s been keeping a secret, it’s already a part of him and telling Cas won’t suddenly make everything different.

That realization, however, does.

He had never thought about it like that before. Dean has spent twenty years keeping his secret hidden and safe, pushing people away and sacrificing his needs and wants in the hope that his father would forgive him. All the guilt and anguish he’s felt has driven people away from him, made them think of Dean as a worthless, good-for-nothing loser. If Cas can love him through all of that, he might even be able to love him through this, through The Secret.

It scares the ever-living shit out of him.

“You know how my mom died in a house fire? I told you that, right?” Dean asks, unable to remember how much of the story he’s already told Cas.

“Yes,” Cas answers.

Dean takes another deep breath. This is it. There’s no going back once he says it, no magic redo button if it ends up ruining everything.

“I…I caused the fire,” he quakes, adrenaline coursing through him at the confession. “I killed her, Cas. I killed my own mother.”

Dean grips the steering wheel tight, his knuckles paling and aching under the strain. He’s crying, though he’s not sure when he started or how he went from composed to the blubbering baby he’s being right now. He’s never said those words out loud, not once, not even to himself. The closest he’s ever been to this confession was when he was just a four year old boy, sobbing to his daddy and saying it was his fault. Dean’s face and ears burn with regret and humiliation, afraid that he’s going to lose Cas, certain that he’s made the biggest mistake of his adult life.

“I was just so pissed that dad wouldn’t let me light my own birthday candle. It was so stupid. I…I waited until they went to bed, and I – fuck, I can’t even say it.”

“Dean,” Cas says, sorrowful and heartbroken, “you were only four. You weren’t even capable of understanding the potential consequences. You couldn’t have known, it wasn’t your fault.”

No, it _is_ Dean’s fault, completely and unavoidably his burden to bear. He lit his mother’s vanilla candle when he couldn’t find the colorful birthday ones, using John’s long red lighter that only needed a single click to start, a trigger easy enough for a toddler to pull. “It is, Cas. She wouldn’t have died if I never lit that fucking candle.”

Dean’s not quite crying anymore, but his body feels hollow and pained and twisted. He thinks he might throw up, he can feel his stomach rolling around and it fucking hurts. Cas’ hand is still rubbing his neck, still giving him little reassuring squeezes and it’s confusing as Hell. Shouldn’t Cas be repulsed? Shouldn’t he feel contaminated by touching Dean’s skin?

That thought makes Dean’s skin crawl and prickle, so much that he has to jerk out of Cas’ reach with a flurry of curses and choked sobs. He opens his door and steps out of the car, sickened with himself and everything he’s ever done. He doesn’t deserve Cas, doesn’t deserve happiness or even the little boy he’ll be having soon. Cas is going to leave him, going to find a way to gently let him down and slip out of his life for good. Cas is –

“Stop it,” Cas commands, appearing beside him. Dean looks up, expecting Cas to be angry or disgusted, but he’s neither. His face is still soft and sad, pleading for something, but Dean can’t tell what. “Please, just stop.”

Then Cas isn’t just beside him, but _around_ him, wrapping his arms over Dean’s and pulling their chests together. Dean stills, but then Cas gently directs Dean’s head to rest on his shoulder, and he melts. Dean can’t help it, he needs this, needs Cas, and now their hearts are aligned and will eventually pulse with the same rhythm. “Stop beating yourself up over this, Dean. I know there’s nothing I can say to change your mind, but know that I still love you. I really do. I love you, and your confession hasn’t changed that.”

If Dean weren’t so immensely grateful for Cas, for the calming waves of love and reassurance that he desperately needs right now, he’d tell Cas all the reasons why he doesn’t deserve it, doesn’t deserve _him_. Dean’s not crying and sobbing anymore, which is a fucking mercy in itself, although the absence of hysterics is confusing the Hell out of him too.

For the third time in Dean Winchester’s life, something he thought would devastate him to the core ended up not changing much at all.

First was his father’s death. Dean thought for sure that losing his dad would be enough of a reason to jump off the nearest cliff, but somehow he ended up moving on and falling in love. When Sam crushed his world all over again, he managed to go back home and clear out the house and even found a hobby he’s pretty good at. He was able to reach a point where he wanted Cas to move in with him, and then found out he was going to be a father himself. Everything he thought would kill him, everything that drove him into panic attacks and drinking and depression turned out to be not so bad.

And now, after the confession of The Secret, Cas says he still loves him and isn’t going anywhere.

Dean returns the hug, or whatever it is they’re doing, wrapping his arms around Cas and pulling him in tighter. He lets his head rest on Cas’ shoulder, but turns so that he’s facing Cas’ neck. He loves that hard-to-describe smell, that strange combination of books and paper and wood – or maybe it’s graphite, he’s not sure. It makes him think of a library, quiet and infinite.

He doesn’t know how long they’re standing there, only a handful of cars have passed and fortunately none of them paid them any mind. They stood there in each other’s arms until their hearts were in sync, until Dean’s mind settled and the weight of The Secret lifted. He doesn’t deserve this, doesn’t understand why he’s allowed to have it after everything he’s done, but Dean’s tired of fighting it. He’s tired of how much work it takes to keep people at arm’s length, to keep secrets buried, to deny himself the simple pleasures of living and loving and learning.

Taking is easy. Dean knows that truth from years of shoplifting and sweet-talking, from watching Sammy accept everything that had been given to him without question or concern. Maybe it’s okay for Dean to do the same. Maybe it’s time to start taking what he wants instead of sacrificing so much, instead of cutting himself open and bleeding for whoever needs it.

He kisses Cas’ neck, then lifts his head so he can kiss that chapped, plush mouth he loves so much. Cas kisses him back readily, soft but eager and pliant, coaxing little moans out of Dean that would normally make him feel slutty or embarrassed. He doesn’t feel that way now, just sated and content and happy. It’s revolutionary, pulverizing the concrete-reinforced walls to dust, and Dean has no idea what to make of that.

Dean pulls away from the kiss, causing Cas to pout and huff in frustration. It makes Dean laugh, and for a moment they’re both bewildered that Dean’s able to laugh at all after what he just did, what he just confessed and consequently felt, but neither one of them mentions it out loud.

“I know where I’m taking you on our date,” Dean says, and Cas’ eyes brighten at that. Dean still has a lot to sort through in his head, a long way to go before he’s really okay with the truth being so exposed and raw, but the Earth didn’t implode and it’s possible Dean may be experiencing just a tiny bit shock.

“Oh?” Cas questions, searching Dean’s face for a hint or sign of an oncoming meltdown, relaxing when he can’t find one.

“Yeah, but you’ll have to wait until tonight.”

“I can do that,” Cas smiles, giving Dean a final squeeze before stepping back and walking around the Impala, getting back in and leaning sleepily against the seat.

Dean gets back behind the wheel, starts up his Baby and drives.

* * * 

Just over eight hours later, Dean stops outside of Rock Springs, Wyoming. They fuel up at the truck stop and grab a handful of snacks and drinks, then slink over to the only motel in the area. Dean’s not entirely certain where they are, but he’s pretty sure it’s a tiny place called Purple Sage or something. It’s the name of the main road they drove in on, and the name of the weathered motel tucked between an auto shop and a bar.

The Purple Sage Motel is neither, funny enough. There’s practically zero color and zero plants to be seen, everything is brown and barren and dusty like a scene from a John Wayne western. He can tell Cas is a mixture of confused and unimpressed, especially since Dean is supposed to be taking him on a real date and there’s not much in the way of places to go here. He doesn’t want his idea to seem lazy, but it’s important to him that they share a couple of hours under the stars, laying on top of the hood of his Baby. It was something special he shared with Sam, something he wanted to do a long time ago but chickened out and invited Benny instead.

He can’t explain why, but the hood of his Impala is always a place where Dean has felt safe and human. He needed it after his dad died, needed to feel the security of his Baby while blanketed by bright, twinkling constellations. He needs it now just like he needed it then. After what he and Cas went through with The Secret, Dean’s still feeling raw and vulnerable and weak.

Driving helped, especially with Cas beside him in the car, but he still went through undulating waves of emotion that he was helpless to control. He was fine, then he wasn’t. His eyes were dry and focused, then they were blurred with tears. He was hungry and putting away strips of beef jerky like he was starving, then he was sick and puking on the side of the road and cussing at himself. Cas never complained or commented on it, being the perfect damn human being that he is. Cas seemed to understand that even though Dean’s world didn’t come crashing down, there were still side effects his body had to work through to adjust to his new reality.

It’s late, and dark enough that the stars are already out. Dean instructs Cas to wait in the car while he brings all their bags inside their motel room. He hates to make Cas wait any longer than he has to, but Dean just needs a moment to be alone.

He sits on the king-sized bed, which isn’t all that nice or comfortable despite the size, and buries his face in his hands.

Dean told Cas The Secret. Cas still loves him. Dean is okay.

He repeats that mantra in his head about thirty times before he finally feels better, at least enough to go back out to the Impala and drive a little further down the dirt road out into the brush. He parks and shuts off the car, gives Cas a wink, and then gets out and climbs up on the hood as carefully as he can.

“Is this our date?” Cas asks once he’s out of the car too, standing close to the hood without actually getting up on top of it.

“Yeah,” Dean confirms, trying to smile casually. “Is that okay?”

Cas gives a little laugh, but it’s not necessarily a happy one. He joins Dean on the hood, crossing his arms behind his head and looking up at the stars. “Of course. I was just…no, nevermind. This is nice.”

Dean feels like shit now. He knows he already ruined the day with his dramatic sob story, and possibly made the entire trip more awkward and uncomfortable than it should have been, and now he’s disappointed Cas with a lame date that he should have known would suck. Cas deserves to be taken somewhere special, dammit.

“Sorry, I know this is stupid. Pick wherever you want to go and I’ll take you there,” Dean mumbles, angry with himself.

“No, no. I actually really like this, honestly. I was just thinking about the last time I saw you like this. Well, I guess I didn’t actually see you, but I knew you had been doing this with someone else. That night we found you after you had been with Benny, I remember being so jealous,” Cas explains, laughing earnestly now at the memory. He lowers one hand from behind his head and takes Dean’s hand in his.

“You were jealous?” Dean has a hard time believing that, though his memory of the night is probably a lot different, blurred around the edges with the alcohol and the pain of being kicked in the ribs.

“Very much so. I don’t know if you remember, but I had asked you out on a date before then. Charlie was scared out of her mind when she went home and couldn’t find you, and when your car was gone too, everyone thought you had left for good. Then we found you, and it was such a relief, but when we realized you had been there with someone else, I couldn’t help it. I thought you weren’t interested in me.”

Dean laughs, because the whole idea of him not wanting to be with Cas is ridiculous. He certainly tried to make it look that way, especially in those early days, but there was never a time when Dean genuinely didn’t want Cas around.

“You know what’s funny? I thought about asking you to go instead,” Dean admits, trying to make his hand as warm and caressing against Cas’ as possible. “I was just in such a shitty mood that I didn’t feel like talking, and I thought if I invited you to sit somewhere in the dark without conversation, it would way too creepy.”

“You have a point there,” Cas chuckles, rolling slightly to the side so he can rest his head on Dean’s shoulder.

Looking back, Dean wishes he had taken Cas out with him instead. Not just because Benny fucked him up and pissed on him, and not because he thinks it could have been a fun date, but right here and now Dean feels more at peace than he ever has in his life.

Cas is a heated line of comfort against him. Everything about him exudes peace and light and safety, makes Dean feel like the world will be okay even when it isn’t. Those qualities are magnified tenfold here, on his Baby beneath the stars, out in the middle of nowhere on a roadtrip to save Sammy. The fact that he can still have this with Cas even after The Secret is incomprehensible, and he feels so goddamn lucky for it. Dean wants to hate himself so much for almost losing Cas, for being such an asshole and pushing him away more than once, but Cas’ presence makes it impossible. He can’t be anything but happy right now.

“I always wanted you,” Dean says, kissing the top of Cas’ head. “I thought you were straight, but even after you said you were gay, I still thought you were too rich and fancy to want someone like me.”

Cas scoffs. “I’m not fancy, Dean.”

“You’re a little fancy,” Dean jokes, pulling Cas in closer until their legs are tangled together, “fancy enough that Balthazar thinks I’m only with you for your money.”

Cas stills at the mention of his ex, sighing like he’s just as frustrated as Dean is. “You make his name sound like a curse word.”

“It should be,” Dean counters, realizing that Cas somehow managed to dodge the point. “You know I’m not with you for your money, right?”

There’s a moment of silence where nothing happens, then in a quick, confusing flash, Dean is underneath Cas and pinned to the Impala. Oh yeah, Cas is a fucking ninja with lightning fast reflexes, and even though Dean’s almost two inches taller than the guy, he still knows Cas has the upper hand here.

It’s kinda hot.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Cas commands, almost growling, kissing the side of Dean’s face. “I wish Baz wouldn’t have said that to you. I never thought that, Dean. You work so hard for everything you have that it makes me feel worthless. I’ve been handed so much and take it for granted, while you put your blood and sweat into everything you do. I’ve contributed nothing to this world, not like you have.”

 _That’s a lie_ , Dean thinks, his thoughts interrupted by the press of Cas’ lips. Cas has given Dean everything, he’s given Dean hope and acceptance and love. He’s never had that before, not like this, never felt like there was a real future to look forward to. Cas has changed Dean’s entire life with four simple words, words he would have killed to hear just once during his entire life.

 _I still love you_.

Cas has no idea what that’s done for him, how much those words have started to change the way Dean thinks and sees and feels. John never forgave Dean, probably never really loved him either after what he had done. Dean’s never known forgiveness like this, and it’s so much more than he ever thought it could be. He feels saved, not like the damsel he used to see himself as, but as a soul worthy of redemption. Cas singlehandedly gripped Dean tight and raised him from perdition, dragged him out of Hell like an angel on a mission from God.

This must be what Heaven feels like.

They’re kissing now, heated and wanting more but respecting the invisible boundary they set for themselves. Cas is cupping Dean’s face with gentle, steady hands, and Dean is holding Cas’ sides with the same hesitant pressure. He can’t ignore the pressure of Cas’ erection against his own, tempted to flex his hips and grind their bodies together, but Dean knows he shouldn’t, knows he can’t. He manages to keep himself from doing so until Cas lets out a filthy sounding moan and rolls forward, and the hot friction is too much.

Dean’s resistance slips, and he rolls them both over until he’s on top, the one in control, setting a fantastic rhythm that has them both panting in no time. Dean wants to make Cas feel good, wants to show him how much he appreciates everything he’s done, wants him whining and breathless and riding the edge of bliss for as long as he can. Dean can see the reflection of the stars on the windshield of his Baby, can see the moon reflected in Cas’ eyes, and the whole thing is so girly that he nearly melts and comes before he’s ready.

He holds on to the building pleasure just a little longer, unable to stop himself when Cas comes quietly, his mouth open but silent. Dean never thought a hushed orgasm could be so sexy, but seeing Cas unravel while trying not to attract attention is one of the best things he’s seen in a long time. Dean comes moments after Cas, biting his lip in an effort to stifle his moan.

Dean practically collapses on top of Cas, unable to bear any of his own weight, exhausted both physically and emotionally from everything that’s happened in the last twenty-four hours. Cas handles his weight just fine, one of the many benefits of being with a six-foot tall guy, and lets Dean just lay there for what feels like hours.

“I thought sex wasn’t allowed until the third date,” Cas jokes, running his fingers through Dean’s hair and over the shell of his ear.

Dean smirks. “I’m pretty sure it’s kissing. No kissing until the third date.”

Cas is laughing again, his chest shaking with it and rocking Dean’s body. “So I’ve been doing it wrong all this time?”

“I don’t know about that,” Dean smiles, kissing Cas’ neck. “Whatever you’re doing seems right to me.”

They lay there in each other’s arms, neither suggesting that they go back to the motel to get cleaned up, even though Dean is sure Cas feels just as sticky and gross as he does. They’ll go back to the motel eventually, but for right now Dean wants to stay in his personal Heaven just a little bit longer. He can’t imagine anything better than this, better than being on the hood of his Baby with the love of his life and cloaked by the night sky. It doesn’t even matter that they’re outside and exposed, or that it’s much warmer than it should be at this time of night. Dean is loved and replete.

It’s not until Dean hears Cas’ breathy snoring that he realizes how long they’ve been out here, but his eyelids are heavy and he’s far too comfortable to move. It shouldn’t feel this good to be laying on a car, his face pressed against the glass and still fully clothed, but it does feel nice and it’s been far too long since he’s had this.

He tries to convince himself that getting up and going to the motel is best, that they’ll regret it if they end up falling asleep outside, but Dean is already half-asleep and slipping out of consciousness.

When he finally falls asleep, it’s with a dusty breeze settling over him and Cas’ promise resounding in his ears.


	27. Chapter 27

“OH CHRIST ALM –”

“Dean?” Cas bolts upright, his back and neck sharply protesting. The skin on Cas’ face feels warm, too warm, almost like he’s…sunburned? “We fell asleep outside.”

“You think?” Dean snaps, pulling himself up off the ground and brushing away the dust and twigs from his clothes. Cas can’t help but laugh. Dean rolled off the Impala in his sleep, waking mid-fall and with not enough time to adequately protect himself. Dean just glares back at him, which only makes Cas laugh harder.

“No need to be grumpy, Dean. It happens.”

“I’m not a damn Care Bear, Cas. I’m pissed, not _grumpy_.”

Cas has to bite his lip to keep himself from laughing even more, and he wants to point out that the fact that Dean knows the names of Care Bears is both hilarious and endearing, but that would probably just make Dean even more upset. After what happened yesterday, Cas doesn’t want to give him any reason to slip back into that depression.

“Then perhaps you’re one of the seven dwarves,” Cas jokes, unable to stop his broad smile.

“Shuddup.”

Cas’ body aches miserably, so his descent off the hood of the Impala is slow. He’s fairly certain that he might even have some bruising where his back was pressed against the windshield wipers, but all things considered, he can’t complain.

He’s missed this, missed Dean, missed everything about the way they are when they’re together. Cas really had been jealous when he found out Dean had been laying on the Impala with Benny, but that green-eyed envious monster is gone now, leaving only a pleasant sense of accomplishment in its wake.

Dean is smoldering, a porous rock simmering by an open fire, ready to explode at any moment. At least, that’s what Cas suspects, but he’s not entirely certain. Yesterday was something he never expected, never thought would happen, but Dean surprised them both with his admission of misplaced guilt. It was hard watching Dean brave the aftershocks of that devastating confession, but it was even harder for Cas to keep his mouth closed, to keep his opinions to himself.

He can’t convince Dean that he’s wrong and not at fault, he knows that and isn’t going to push him on it. But what Cas can’t quite figure out are the missing details Dean either forgot to mention or wouldn’t, the tidbits that don’t line up or make sense. Didn’t Bobby say that Mary fell down a flight of stairs? Her death was purely an accident, something that could have happened whether there was a fire or not, but Dean didn’t mention anything about that.

Equally confusing is how Dean lighting a candle resulted in the subsequent house fire.  

Dean didn’t say anything about knocking the candle over, or how the candle managed to set the rest of the home ablaze. The last thing Cas wants to do is bring it up again and upset him, but Dean has carried the massive guilt of a murderer his entire life and there’s got to be a specific reason why. People light candles all the time, leave them lit overnight or even light twenty of them at once without any ill-effects.

Maybe he’s thinking about it too hard. Dean said he lit a candle and therefore the fire is solely his fault. Perhaps Cas should just take it at face value and stop analyzing it.

Easier said than done, though.

Dean is looking a bit like a green-eyed monster himself, scowling and angry and covered in dust that he can’t seem to brush off. Cas wants to wrap him in a tight embrace, wants to brush off the dirt and the sadness and the prickly thorns sticking out of Dean’s jeans, but this is uncharted territory and Cas is no cartographer. He has no idea if Dean should be handled with care or not, if his skin is thin and stretching and about to burst, or if he’s handling the confession better than Cas is giving him credit for.

It’s not until Dean cracks a smile at the sight of dried drool on the windshield that Cas suspects he’s the only one overreacting. Perhaps Dean is doing just fine.

And, if Cas knows anything about the honey-colored man he’s grown to love, it’s that Dean hates to be treated like a fragile creature in need of protection. If Dean doesn’t want something, he’s fully capable of expressing it.

Suppressing the flickering fear steadily burning out inside of him, Cas smiles in tune with Dean. He walks around the front of the Impala, his legs aching and muscles twinging in pain, and pulls Dean into a hug. Dean hugs back, but neither of them let it linger longer than necessary. They’re both tired and hurting, in desperate need of a shower and clean clothes, and if the flavor in Cas’ mouth is anything to go by, he probably swallowed a few bugs in his sleep.

Dean still seems frustrated about something though, not that Cas can really blame him. After all, they’re on a second road trip to potentially rescue a wayward, drug addicted brother. His and Dean’s relationship is still ill-defined and blurred around the edges, and they haven’t exactly discussed a course of action for what happens if Sam actually decides to come back with them.

Cas just couldn’t leave Dean to deal with it on his own. That’s not to say his attendance on this trip is strictly selfless, because Cas loves Dean far too much for it to be anything other than self-serving. He doesn’t want to have to worry and wonder if Dean’s okay, he wants to be included in this significant event in Dean’s life, and Cas would be stupid to pass up the opportunity for this much alone time. It’s practically one long date, even if they’re both pretending it’s not.

“When I told you to shut up, I wasn’t being serious,” Dean says, breaking the silence. Cas blinks and looks around, realizing they’ve just been awkwardly standing there while Cas had his own inner monologue going. This must be why everyone thinks Cas is so weird – because he’s constantly doing peculiar things without even noticing it.

“Sorry,” Cas mumbles, rubbing the back of his head out of nervous habit. “We should get back to the motel.”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees, getting in the car and starting her up. Cas goes back around the Impala and gets in his seat.

His seat? Technically, it’s not his. It’s just the passenger seat, but he supposes there’s no harm in referring to it as ‘his’ so long as no one else has to know about it. Dean might be freaked out to hear that Cas has come to feel like he belongs beside him in the Impala, like the seat has been Cas’ since the first road trip. It’s just another one of those things Cas adds to pile of reasons why he and Dean should be together.

By the time they get back to the motel, Cas has made a decision. He’s going to stop making Dean earn him back, he’s going to drop the false notion that they need to start over or take their time. Cas has never been in a relationship like this before, it’s scary and unknown but exciting and deep and delightful. He loves Dean more than he’s ever loved anyone else, he appreciates him in a way that he never thought possible. Dean is such a beautifully complex creature full of untapped potential that it hardly seems fair that Cas gets him all to himself.

Cas is about to tell Dean as much, but then it hits him that his own confession could be taken the wrong way. What if Dean thinks Cas is only fully taking him back out of sorrow or pity? What if Dean associates Cas’ sudden forgiveness with what he said about his mother?

It’s too chancy. It could end up ruining what they have, and that’s not a risk Cas is willing to take.

So he bites his tongue, deciding that he can just show Dean how he feels rather than trying to explain it. It’ll have to be gradual too, because Dean is so self-conscious and sensitive that even a sudden change in behavior could be taken the wrong way.

Damn Dean and his habit of self-depreciation, and damn himself for being overly cautious and pessimistic.

They really do make quite the pair.

While Dean takes a ridiculously long shower, Cas lays on the bed in his boxers, his hair still wet and smelling like cheap bottled lavender. He wants many things, wants to save Dean from the ghosts dwelling in his soul, but more than that he wants Dean to save himself. Cas hasn’t given him enough credit in that area, either. Dean did a fine job of pulling his head out of his ass, of acknowledging the love and support he has in spades around him, and even made the first step toward repairing their relationship after those two weeks of misery.

Dean even took a punch to the face without fighting back or escalating. He did everything Cas told him to do a long time ago, back after their first fated, drunken kiss. And now, against all odds, Dean actually acknowledged his deepest secret and told someone his painful truth.

It’s about time Cas steps down off the pedestal he’s put himself on.

When Dean finally comes out of the bathroom, a flimsy white motel towel wrapped around his waist, Cas rolls off the bed and crowds Dean up against the wall, pressing their lips together with a little too much force. Dean doesn’t resist, letting Cas map out his mouth with his tongue. After a minute or so of kissing that way, Cas laughs, thinking _maybe I’m a cartographer after all_ , breaking away and laughing against Dean’s still-wet collarbone.

Dean laughs too, and it’s good. Cas lives for these silly moments when he gets to see Dean let go of his bravado and relax, when he lets his guard down and just enjoys the moment. He hates to cut it short, but they’re bordering too closely on check-out time and they still have many miles to go before they reach their destination. Cas places a final kiss on Dean’s neck, subtly tasting the droplets of shower water and the hint of scented shampoo, then steps back to get dressed.

He doesn’t want to dress in his usual attire today, though. He settles for a comfortable pair of navy blue sweats and a loose fitting gray t-shirt, and Dean does pretty much the same. They’re dressed for the road and don’t have any plans that would require actual clothing, and it’s nice to give the form-fitting jeans and polo shirts a break for once.

On their way out, they stop at the counter to turn in their key and pay the final bill. Dean is grumbling obscenities about having to pay for a motel room they didn’t actually sleep in, so when the scruffy clerk behind the counter gives them a weird, penetrating look, Cas assumes that’s why.

“Y’all here for the Big Show?”

It’s the clerk who speaks, an older gentleman who looks like he could use a thorough shower himself, and he’s staring between Dean and Cas like he’s got something to say about two guys sharing a motel room. Cas is used to those looks now, not that he ever really cared about them in the first place, but he knows how Dean gets whenever he feels like his masculinity has been threatened.

But when Cas looks to Dean for guidance, unsure of what to say because Cas doesn’t always understand euphemisms or insults when he hears them, Dean doesn’t look upset at all. He actually looks kind if intrigued. The Big Show must not be a homosexual slur after all.

“That’s going on right now?” Dean asks, stepping closer to the counter.

“Today’s the last day, tickets are half price.”

“Yeah man, we’ll take two.” Dean is smiling, but not the carefree smile reserved for intimate moments behind closed doors. It’s the cocky one, the one that goes with his leather jacket and steel-toed boots, the one for the rest of the world because no one is quite as lucky as Cas is.

The clerk reaches below the counter and pulls out two tickets, sliding them over to Dean and taking the crumpled cash from Dean’s hand. “Y’all have fun,” the clerk intones, bored, returning his attention to the television screen on the wall.

Cas follows Dean out to the Impala, and they both toss their bags in the back before sitting up front. “What’s the Big Show?”

This time, when Dean smiles, it’s the real deal; warm and open and casual. “It’s so awesome, Cas. It’s basically this big-ass fair with rides and tents and competitions and stuff. I haven’t been to it since I was practically a kid,” Dean answers fondly, getting lost in the old memories. “Shit, I should have asked if you wanted to go. I just figured since we still have time to kill before Ruby’s funeral, it wouldn’t hurt to spend a day there, right?”

The look on Dean’s face can only be described as cute. He’s excited and eager to go, but it’s tainted with hesitance and caution like Dean’s afraid of disappointing him. “Of course not,” Cas says, smiling back and trying to get Dean’s nerves to settle. “I’ve never been to a fair, so it should be fun.”

Dean’s jaw nearly hits the floor, his eyes widening in disbelief. “You’ve never been to a fair? No way, how is that even possible? I didn’t grow up in a regular family and even _I_ went to fairs.”

Cas just shrugs. Dean’s family may not have been typical, and it’s true that Dean had it much harder that most growing up, but Cas’ family wasn’t exactly normal either. He was homeschooled in a strict Christian setting and wasn’t allowed out very much, and his mother thought things like bazaars and carnivals were breeding grounds for bad choices, like drugs and sex and Satan worshipping.

“I never had a reason to go, I suppose,” Cas says, keeping it light. Dean smirks, and Cas can tell there’s something mischievous on his mind. _Yes_ , Cas thinks, because he rather likes it when Dean is naughty.

“Be prepared for a day full of amazing shit, Cas. It’ll blow your freakin’ mind.”

Cas doubts that very much, he’s not often surprised by things and he’s seen pictures of fairs before so he knows what to expect. But then again, Dean has a way of turning the simplest things into grand adventures, so maybe he has no idea what to expect after all.

That thought is confirmed when they arrive at the venue twenty minutes later, exchanging their tickets for a plastic bracelet and smiley face stamp on the back of their hands. There are tons of people, thousands probably, all walking around and bumping into each other, eating food on sticks and jumping around like it’s a mosh pit. Cas wishes they could have changed their clothes prior to coming here, he feels exposed and self-conscious in his sweats which are practically pajamas, but Dean is dressed the same way and he doesn’t seem bothered by it at all.

“What do you want to do first?” Dean asks, keeping his arm around Cas’ waist. Cas is almost too distracted to reply because Dean is so rarely willing to show public displays of affection, especially when there are this many people around, but he’s holding on to Cas like it’s no big deal and it warms from the inside out.

“I have no idea,” Cas admits, looking around. There are many rides, all of which look horrifically dangerous and poorly maintained, and there’s practically an entire village of little shops and eateries over to the right. He doesn’t know everything that’s going on here, but he figures Dean should be the leader since he’s the only one with experience. “I’ll just follow you.”

It’s a beautiful day out, surprisingly nice for the end of July, but Cas is still uncertain about being here. His muscles are still complaining from falling asleep on the Impala, and he’s not sure if it’s a good idea to spend a whole day here when they should probably be driving instead. Dean is in such a good mood that it’s almost unsettling, especially after yesterday, and Cas just hopes it’s not the calm before the storm.

Plus, this place really is enormous. He’s seen smaller carnivals on television, and they always looked so cute and sweet and romantic. Wyoming’s Big Show is exactly that – a giant display of everything anyone could possibly want at a venue like this. There’s even a petting zoo apparently, which would explain the underlying smell of sawdust and manure.

“Sounds good,” Dean agrees, kissing Cas’ cheek. Cas is beginning to wonder if Dean is sober and coherent, because he can barely remember the last time Dean felt comfortable enough to kiss him in public, let alone leave his arm around him. He wonders if that’s part of the magic of these things, since the couples in the movies always look so helplessly in love.

He’s not going to mention it, though. Cas loves it and doesn’t want it to stop. It’s like that scene from The Notebook, which means that right now is pretty much the first time ever that his life felt like a romance novel.

Dean takes Cas’ hand in his, entwining their fingers together and dragging him along until they’re walking down a weathered path lined with tents and shops. Cas complains about the dirt and wood chips all over the place, but Dean just laughs at him and fondly calls him a prude. There are so many people around that’s hard to see everything, but Dean is walking like a man on a mission and Cas isn’t one to complain.

“It’s so different from the last time I was here,” Dean smiles, slowing his pace so they’re walking side by side, “it wasn’t quite this big, but there’s still a lot of familiar stuff, too. Do you like elephant ears?”

Cas shakes his head. “Do you mean literal elephant ears, Dean?”

“What? No, dude. It’s kind of like a pastry, I guess. They fry bread until it’s perfect and crispy, and you can pick out whatever toppings you want,” Dean explains, and Cas is certain he’s never eaten anything like it.

“That doesn’t sound like something a person should have for breakfast,” Cas replies. He’s feeling out of place here, crowded and nervous, but he doesn’t want to put Dean off by sticking to him like glue for the entire day. He’s not sure how he feels about eating food prepared here, since all of the little tents and eateries are clouded with the same kicked up muck and sawdust that they’re walking on. Cas sincerely doubts they’re regulated with standards and health codes.

Dean rolls his eyes, turning until he’s facing Cas, then pulls him close until their bodies are pressed together. Dean stares down into Cas’ eyes, unflinching and unconcerned with the rest of the world. Cas is anxious, watching the groups of people in his periphery simply walk around them without stopping or staring. “Real life rules don’t apply to fair grounds, okay? Dessert for breakfast is practically expected here.”

Cas takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself. He’s never been this concerned about other people before and he’s not sure why there’s a sudden change. He wonders if that’s why Dean seems to have no problem holding him like this in the middle of all these people, because real life rules don’t apply. He wishes this would happen out in the real world, though. He wishes Dean would stop caring about what other people think and let himself love this openly. Cas may as well milk the day for all it’s worth and get his fill of affection while he can.

“Then we should eat one,” Cas says, letting go of his concerns.

Dean leans forward and kisses him. It’s just a quick one, but still so much more than Cas is used to when they’re not shrouded behind closed doors.

This is really happening. Dean is freely showing his love and doesn’t care who sees.

Cas has really, really been underestimating him.

They stop in front of a green tent that smells like absolute heaven, despite the particulates of dirt he can feel like chalk scraping down his lungs. He didn’t get to have fried foods much growing up, so the scent is new and exciting and delicious. They both eye the menu, which is really just a list of toppings to choose from, and he’s surprised by the vast number of things people can put on fried bread.

It’s their turn, and Dean orders first. He chooses the powdered sugar and cream cheese glaze, and Cas decides on the raspberry sauce and whipped cream. They take their plates, which smell even better up close, and Dean pulls out his card and pays for the food. That’s something new, too. It’s not that Dean doesn’t usually pay for things, most of the time he insists on it and won’t let Cas help, but Cas is used to seeing him grumble about it or turn it into a big deal. Dean isn’t doing that now, he’s just gladly paying for everything with a smile on his face, and it’s so sweet that Cas can barely contain himself. He wants to praise Dean for how much progress he’s made, but since he can’t verbally do so without making Dean feel uncomfortable, Cas will just have to _show_ him how much he appreciates it and hope Dean gets the message.

They walk a little further down the path, still holding hands and trying to avoid the other people so their food isn’t bumped into, and find a handful of picnic benches where others are sitting and eating in an open grassy area. There’s an empty table right in front of them, but there are dirty plates and cups left behind. Normally Cas would object because that’s just gross, but Dean clears the table and puts it all in the nearby trash can. _Real life rules don’t apply here_ , Cas reminds himself, sitting down with his plate and taking a bite.

Lord have mercy, it’s even more delicious than it smells.

“Should I be jealous?” Dean jokes, watching Cas take another bite. Cas didn’t realize he was moaning around the mouthful of sweet, crunchy, raspberry Heaven, but Dean certainly did. His eyes are liquid pools of black and a thin ring of electric green, staring at Cas like he’s hypnotized. Cas stares back for a moment, swallowing his second bite, but he’s completely caught off guard when Dean leans over the table and licks raspberry sauce from the corner of his mouth.

Holding hands and kissing in public is one thing, but licking Cas’ face? This man cannot possibly be Dean Winchester. Either that, or Dean is suffering from some kind of post-traumatic shock that will implode by tomorrow and burst the bubble of happiness Cas is riding right now.

Cas just stares open-mouthed at Dean for a moment, unable to conceal his confusion. “You don’t care if anyone sees?” Cas asks, almost laughing. He just cannot believe that Dean would ever be this loving and affectionate in public. He wants to know what changed, and hopes it’s not an attempt to distract Cas from The Secret.

Dean just chuckles and shrugs, taking a bite of his own elephant ear. “I don’t know, man. I’m just happy. I didn’t think…” he pauses, shaking his head and changing direction, “I love fairs, I guess. Always have.”

Cas can only speculate at what Dean was going to say, but he thinks he has a pretty good idea of what it was. Either way, Cas is happy too.

“I can see why. There’s quite a lot to do.”

Dean nods, and they finish eating their fried, sugary food in silence. Well, close enough to silence, anyway. Cas can’t stop the noises he’s making with every bite, because he’s never tasted anything quite this good and he’s going to have to look up the recipe when he gets home.

They throw their plates in the trash, leaving the picnic bench cleaner than the way they found it. The grassy terrain beneath their feet is uneven and lumpy, which is surprising considering the high volume of traffic that should have flattened it by now, but people seem to be walking over it without any issues. Cas follows Dean until they’re back on the dirt path, walking down another lane of tents and shops.

Most of the tents they pass by are ones selling food, from gyros to slushies to kettle corn and cotton candy. Cas didn’t even know it was possible to deep fry a Twinkie or an Oreo, but now that he does, he still can’t fathom how anyone could ingest such a heart-clogging calorie bomb. He makes the mistake of saying so out loud, to which Dean promises – or threatens, he’s not sure – that Cas will try one before they leave at the end of the day.

Dean stops and watches an older man whittle wood, surrounded by his handiwork, each with a little green sticker for a price tag. There are wooden bears and wolves, carved name signs and even a handmade clock that reminds Cas of his old appreciation for steampunk culture. The look in Dean’s eyes is what really capture’s Cas’ attention, though. Dean loves making things with his hands, and Cas would bet every dime in his bank account that Dean would trade his job at the garage for the one this old, greyed man has.

He wonders if Dean would accept a little start-up money to get his own business like that going. Probably not.  

“Look at that,” Dean says, looking away from the woodwork and pointing at a blue and purple tent with a large banner hanging out in front of it. It’s clearly advertising psychic services, which Cas practically scoffs at. “What?”

“A psychic, Dean? Please, don’t waste your money.”

Dean just lifts an eyebrow at that, giving Cas an incredulous look. “Come on, Cas, don’t be like that. It’ll be fun.”

“Well, I was never very resistant to peer pressure,” Cas intones, returning Dean’s disbelieving gaze, “and I can’t tell you how to spend your money.”

“Exactly,” Dean smiles, ignoring Cas’ blatant sarcasm. “Seriously, relax. It’s all just for fun, right? When are we ever going to be able to do stuff like this again?”

He’d much rather stop and look at the other tents full of crafts and handmade items, but Dean seems dead set on seeing the Sylvia Plath wannabe, and Dean has a point. Cas is being uptight over nothing, and it’s not like either of them is going to take the psychic seriously. Cas really is having fun, more fun than he’s had in a long time, and there’s no point in spoiling it for either of them with his unadventurous attitude.

He’s tugged along again, enjoying the myriad of smells and colors that line the path until they reach the psychic’s tent. One of the flaps is tied back to allow people inside, but it’s poorly lit and a little creepy from what Cas can see. Dean goes in first, not letting go of Cas’ hand, and then they’re both inside and cloaked in an eerie darkness.

“Shit, can’t see anything,” Dean mumbles, looking around and squinting. “Maybe it’s closed.”

They stand there awkwardly for another moment, giving their eyes time to adjust, but they never do. It sends a chill across Cas’ skin, the fine hairs on his flesh prickling with unease. His eyes should have adjusted to the darkness by now. “We should go, then,” Cas suggests, turning back toward the entrance, unsettled. Before he can take a step forward, an iridescent light glows near the back of the tent, swirling little tendrils like fog across the floor.

It’s not bad as far as parlor tricks go, but it still leaves Cas feeling uncomfortable and ready to leave.

“Come on,” Dean encourages, walking toward the light.

In the back, there’s a small table with a cliché crystal ball - the source of the opaque, colorful light that brightens the room. There’s a woman sitting on the other side of the table, thin and mousy with chocolate brown hair that falls to her shoulders. There’s something strange about the way she’s sitting, staring out toward the entrance without looking directly at either of them. It only takes a moment to figure out why; she’s blind, her filmy eyes matching the pearly light glowing around them.

“Welcome,” she says, her voice bold and commanding. “You’re new, so the first reading is on the house.”

“Whoa,” Dean breathes, stepping forward. “How’d you know we’re new?”

“Psychic, remember?” She smirks, which looks strangely unnatural without her eyes cooperating. “I’m Pamela.”

Cas wants to roll his eyes and walk out of the tent, because the whole thing is so silly that it’s hard not to laugh. He can see the little fog machine on the floor and the power cord running from the crystal ball to an extension cord .It’s incredibly cliché, too, and Cas wonders how on Earth anyone can take her seriously enough to pay for her services.

Dean sits down in the first chair. Cas doesn’t want to be difficult, so he sits in the second chair beside Dean and waits. He had been politely smiling at first, trying not to look bored, but then he remembered that blind people cannot see, and therefore his olive-branch expression was going to waste. Dean looks excited as ever, which is the only thing keeping Cas from outright scowling. It’s not that he’s unhappy, he just hates wasting his time on things like this, on people who get paid to trick others professionally.

He feels guilty thinking of it that way, and decides that any time spent with Dean isn’t a waste.

“What do you see in that crystal ball of yours, Pam? We gonna live happily ever after, or what?” Dean asks, leaning forward. Cas just hopes that Pam puts on a good enough show and doesn’t ruin their day with a bad reading. He’s never hit a woman before, but Dean’s never been this unashamed of their love and he’s not about to let some fake psychic ruin it for him.

It’s slightly disturbing that Dean’s open affections are enough to make Cas contemplate the benefits of violence.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Pam teases, shifting in her seat. She waves her hands around the stupid ball, taking deep breaths and humming. “Oh.” It’s a concerned type of _oh_ , not a happy or pleasant one, and Cas can feel the irritation building already. “I’m so sorry, hun.”

Cas and Dean exchange a confused glance. “What?” Dean asks, and if Cas didn’t know any better, he’d think Dean was genuinely concerned.

“That will reveal itself in time,” Pam says, and it’s such an obvious answer. Of course she’s being as vague as possible. Can’t be wrong if you’re not specific. “But I want you to remember something, okay? He wouldn’t lie to you, not about that.”

There’s an awkward pause between the three of them. Dean’s brows knit together in confusion and Cas remains still in his seat, holding himself back from audibly sighing with skepticism. “Who?”

“You’ll see,” Pam smiles, waving her hands around the ball again.

Cas looks over at Dean, shaking his head, trying to convey his boredom and disbelief. Dean just shrugs and offers an apologetic smile. Cas knows he has a serious problem with letting himself enjoy these kinds of things, but he can’t help his gut reaction that makes him feel so discomfited just being in the same room as a psychic. He certainly doesn’t agree with his family’s beliefs, nor does he believe in the supernatural, but avoiding these types of people was beaten into him so fiercely that his response is innate.

“Some psychic,” Cas groans, entirely on accident. Dean’s eyes widen as he bites his lip, trying to muffle a laugh, and Pam just creepily smirks again.

“Oh, it’s just for fun,” Pam chirps, lowering her hands to the table. “Real life rules don’t apply here anyway, right Castiel?”

Cas shivers, feeling sick. How did she know his name? How did she know what Dean told him?

He rises from the chair without a second thought, storming away like a child, uncaring that he’s embarrassing himself or that he let a professional con-woman get the best of him. Dean is scrambling after him, telling him to wait, to slow down. Cas pauses and waits for Dean to catch up, because there really are a lot of people out there and he doesn’t want to end up lost or separated.

“Castiel,” Pam says, her strong voice carrying through the tent, “there’s a first aid tent a few rows over to the east.”

Cas glowers, but then his heart rate picks up speed as Dean finally catches up with him, taking his hand. What could she possibly mean by that?

Now Cas is the one dragging Dean along, taking them back over the grassy picnic area where they ate their sugary, deep fried breakfast. Dean isn’t saying anything, just looking at Cas like he’s gone crazy. “I don’t like psychics,” Cas supplies, hoping to erase the worried expression on Dean’s face. He feels the same way about tarot cards and Ouija boards, even though he knows those aren’t real either. It doesn’t help much, he still looks a bit crestfallen and Cas feels bad about it. He didn’t mean to ruin their day at the fair with his sour mood and overly-conservative upbringing.

“You know none of that’s real, right? She probably just heard us talking outside the tent. Don’t worry about it, okay?” Dean says, letting himself be dragged over the uneven grass, not resisting or complaining when Cas huffs.

“Of course I know it’s not real. I simply dislike people who make a career out of advanced forms of manipulation.”

“Take it easy, Cas. It’s not like we had to pay her,” Dean points out. He slows down but doesn’t necessarily pull back, making Cas slow down too and take a moment to breathe. “Come on man, chill out.”

Dean is right, as usual. Cas is overreacting for no reason, ruining a perfectly good day that Dean had been so excited about. There are tons of tents and rides and eateries still left to see, still half a day to explore and relax and enjoy each other’s company.

Cas stops and turns toward Dean, wanting to pull him into a soothing hug to center himself, but his foot slips into a hidden crevice in the ground and he falls forward, hissing and cussing at the sharp pains shooting up his legs. “Shit!”

“Whoa!” Dean darts forward and catches Cas before he hits the ground, his hand clutching at the fabric of Cas’ shirt with his other hand behind Cas’ head. It would be romantic if he weren’t in so much pain, his foot still stuck in crevice and twisted.

“Are you okay?” Cas shakes his head, wincing with a sharp breath when Dean carefully lowers him to the ground. Dean sees the problem right way, half crawling and half walking over to Cas’ foot where it’s wedged in the Earth. “It’s alright babe, I got you.”

Dean carefully pushes the rocks and dirt out of the way, freeing Cas’ foot and looking it over for any sign of something serious. It must not be too bad, because Dean doesn’t seem that worried about it. Cas’ ankle is killing him, throbbing with sharp little pulses that are enough to distract him from how unbelievably gorgeous Dean is when he plays doctor. “I think it’s sprained. We should get you to that first aid tent.”

Cas wants to protest, because the fact that Pam somehow predicted he would need to go to the tent only angers him further and makes him feel foolish, but he’s in too much pain to refuse. Then again, she probably just knew the likelihood of people getting hurt in large, cumbersome crowds. “Yeah, you’re right. It hurts.”

Dean leans over and gently presses a kiss over the swollen, bruising flesh around his ankle, then scoots back over to Cas and helps him up to his good foot. “I don’t think I can walk on it, Dean,” Cas worries, testing how much weight he can bear on his foot, which turns out to be none. “I’m so sorry. I’ve ruined everything.”

To Cas’ surprise, Dean laughs. “No, you haven’t. I can carry you to the tent.”

“No,” Cas blurts, turning red at the idea of being carried around like a bride in Dean’s arms. “I can hop.”

“Don’t be stupid, Cas,” Dean insists, squatting in front of him and pointing to his back, “the only place you’re hopping is up on my back, got it?”

Cas can feel his cheeks burning with embarrassment, but he’s not entirely sure why he’s feeling so humiliated. Dean has been nothing but wonderful today, minus his foul mood this morning after falling off the Impala, and Cas shouldn’t be upset over something so small. He looks around, wondering if he’s caused a scene, checking to see how many people are staring at him. Fortunately, no one is looking at them. Everyone around them is continuing on with their own business, too busy laughing and kissing and buying things to notice the fool who was pouting so hard that he tripped.

He relents, leaning forward until his weight is fully supported by Dean’s broad back. It’s better than being carried around like a baby, at least. When Dean stands, Cas holds on tight and wraps his legs around Dean’s waist, careful not to hurt his ankle. He’s glad he’s wearing sweat pants, because this would have been extremely uncomfortable in jeans. Hiding his face against Dean’s sun-soaked nape, Cas blocks out the rest of the world and lets himself enjoy the gesture.

As a six foot tall man, Cas isn’t exactly used to being carried around. He and Balthazar never had a reason or occasion for such a thing, and he’s never been close enough to anyone else to let this happen. Dean carries him easily, which is incredibly sexy, not to mention the fact that he can feel each of Dean’s sculpted muscles between his thighs. He’s starting to think the pain in his ankle and enduring that Machiavellian psychic was definitely worth it.

They make it to the first aid tent in a matter of minutes, and the medic on site looks at Cas’ ankle before wrapping it up in an ace bandage. She retrieves a small ice pack from the cooler, tucking it onto the bandage to keep his ankle cool and protecting his skin from direct contact. She tells him not to walk on it, which Cas suspected would be the case, and guilt settles over him once again.

“I’m sorry, Dean. I didn’t mean to cut our day short.”

“Who said our day is getting cut short?” Dean asks, looking at Cas with a wry smile, “we still have a lot to see, remember? Besides, we haven’t even been on any rides yet.”

Cas sighs, tilting his head, looking at Dean with confusion. “I can’t walk,” he says, bluntly, trying to read Dean’s expression without success.

“No, but I can carry you.”

Cas doesn’t know what to say about that.

He waits until the medic is out of ear shot on the other side of the tent, tending to a little girl with a scrape on her palm, before returning his attention to Dean. “I don’t understand. You’re acting strangely today and it’s throwing me off balance,” Cas says, glancing down at his swollen ankle, “both literally and figuratively.”

There’s a moment of silence where Dean simply looks away, raking fingers through his dark blonde hair and exhaling a long, overdue breath. Dean looks saddened now, and as much as Cas wishes he hadn’t of said anything, he knows he needed to. Dean has been abnormally affectionate, happier than usual despite the purpose of their trip and the potential heartache that lies ahead. Cas loves that Dean is handling it well, that he’s smiling and laughing and letting himself enjoy a day at the fair, but Cas doesn’t want the other shoe to drop. He doesn’t want Dean deflating and angry at himself, doesn’t want this to be some side effect of spilling The Secret..

“I’m not usually in a good mood, am I?” Dean says, his voice light and calm despite the downcast look on his face.

“No, I wouldn’t say so.”

Dean offers a weak smile at that, then crouches beside the chair that Cas is sitting in. He leans on the armrest, getting close enough so that only Cas can hear him. “You love me, Cas.”

It’s a statement, not a question. Cas waits for further explanation, but after a minute of silence he realizes Dean isn’t going to say anything else. “Of course I do,” Cas assures, cupping the side of Dean’s face, letting his thumb drag over the fine stubble on his jaw.

“I mean, you _still_ love me. After what I told you.”

Cas thinks he understands now. Dean is grateful for Cas’ enduring acceptance, surprised that Cas didn’t pack up and leave immediately or accuse Dean of being a heartless murderer. It breaks Cas’ heart all over again, hurting for the man who should have never been blamed for his mother’s death, who might not have even caused the fire in the first place.

But Cas can’t say that, can’t point out that possibility without making it worse. All he can do, it seems, is love Dean fully and let Dean love him back.

“Yes,” Cas breathes, dropping a hand to rest on Dean’s shoulder. “Always.”

Dean smiles, turning an adorable shade of red and burying his face in the crook of his arm.

It really is just like the movies Cas loves to watch at home, the sappy ones that cheer him up when he’s had a bad day, the films he drowned himself in every time his heart was crushed. He didn’t think days like today were possible, didn’t think there’d be anything like this to look forward to back in Kansas when they get home. Cas hasn’t been this happy since that night at the Roadhouse, when Dean was supposed to give him that mysterious present.

Whatever happens with Sam, whatever happens in California this time around at Ruby’s funeral, Cas prays to his mother’s God that he gets to keep Dean, just like this.

“Dean?”

He lifts his head, face still blushed. “Yeah, Cas?”

“Can I have my present when we get back to Lawrence?”

Confusion flickers across Dean’s face for just a moment before the memory dawns on him, his eyes widening like two impossibly large moons, and the redness of his flushed skin crawls lower down his neck and up over his ears.

“Uh,” Dean stutters, gulping in a shaky breath. Cas wants to kick himself, it was only supposed to be a harmless question but apparently it’s a bigger deal for Dean than Cas realized. “You can have it now, actually. It’s…uh, it’s in the car.”

Cas wasn’t expecting that at all. “Really?” He tries to think of what the present could be, why Dean would bring it along only to keep it a secret. The way Dean’s breath hitches like he’s about to go bungee jumping only makes the anticipation worse, makes the confusion grow.

“Yeah. We can, uh, go out to the car now, if you want. We should get you a brace for your foot anyway, so you can walk around,” Dean mumbles, trying to act calm and collected but failing miserably.

Cas nods with too much eagerness, which makes Dean laugh nervously as he rises to his feet, dragging his fingers through his hair. Dean takes a long, slow breath, filling his lungs completely before letting it all out with a noisy huff and another timid smile. He crouches in front of Cas again, letting Cas maneuver himself over Dean’s back again before standing and tightening his grip on Cas’ thighs.

“Love you,” Cas says, his lips just behind Dean’s ear.

“Sure fuckin’ hope so,” Dean jokes, but there’s a nervous edge to it as well.

Cas can’t believe he’s actually going to get his gift, _finally_ , after waiting for almost two months.

He just hopes it’s nothing he can’t accept.


	28. Chapter 28

“Dean?”

Cas was confused, nervous, and rightfully so. Dean was being cryptic and dodgy, not entirely on purpose, but if he’s going to do this he’s not going to do it where other people can see. It’s not so much about being seen - at this point Dean couldn’t give a flying fuck if people saw him out with another guy – but it’s supposed to be special and sacred and all that other Hollywood-glorified crap that people expect when getting proposed to.

Not that he’s proposing, not _marriage_ anyway, but giving your boyfriend a key to your house and asking him to move in feels pretty damn close.

Dean had been crowded by a sickening panic the entire walk back to the Impala despite the literal, comforting weight of Cas on his back. He was silent for fear of speaking, like he couldn’t trust his own tongue not to run away and betray his intent, but then he could feel the subtle warmth of Cas’ smile against his nape; plush, unfettered, and downright _delighted._ It was disarming and emboldening all at once, snuffing the cowardice at the root before it could take hold.

Cas has always had a way of doing that, of exuding a certain substance that numbs and soothes Dean’s caustic, volatile edges. If he could figure out how to bottle it, he’d be an absurdly wealthy man.

“Get in,” Dean coaxes, setting Cas down gently and opening the passenger door for him. Bright eyes flicker in his direction, lashes batting with curiosity and concern. He settles into his seat without another word, checking the ice pack wrapped around his ankle to keep his hands and mind occupied while Dean pops the trunk and goes through his duffel bag.

He doesn’t normally keep his duffel so far out of reach, but Cas had been going through it so casually that Dean didn’t want to risk him stumbling across the key on his own.

His hand finds the Sebenza box quickly enough. Even now, under completely different circumstances than the first time Dean put the key inside of it, the sleek-black box is still utterly perfect. Just looking at it helps cauterize the final bits of fear and worry bleeding from that old, insecure wound.

Dean knows he can trust Cas with this question, just like he could trust Cas with his lurid, dust-covered secret.

He shoves the box into the loose pocket of his sweatpants and closes the trunk with a sense of finality. When he takes his place behind the wheel, Cas just tilts his head and looks at him with solemn eyes. Goddamn, Dean is in love with one stunning, fine-ass man.

When Cas laughs, that silvery spark returning to his baby-blues, Dean suspects he might have said that last part out loud.

“You’ll get your present, I just don’t want to do it here,” Dean explains, starting the car and carefully pulling out of the congested parking lot. It takes longer than it should to weave through throngs of pedestrians blocking the road, creeping his Baby along at five miles an hour until they’re back out on the interstate headed west.

Dean is probably more familiar with the I-80 than any other road in the continental United States, and he never had a reason to be grateful for that until today. There’s a beautiful spot he’s been to before, a small island nestled on the Green River that the state of Wyoming saw fit to turn into a park. It was still largely under construction the last time Dean stopped in the area long enough to check it out, enhancing the seven-acre island with pavilions and benches and walking paths.

If Dean were ever to propose for real, if he ever planned on asking someone to marry him out of love rather than sharp, suffocating fear, he’d want to do it there, or at least someplace similar. It’s intimate but open, surrounded by the soft rustle of wind-swept leaves and the quiet gurgle of a river, the sun baking through their shirts and glowing gold against their skin and hair. That’s how he imagines it, anyway, during the brief moments he allows his mind to wander in that direction.

Giving Cas the key is the closest he’s ever going to get to that particular fantasy. If Cas accepts, then he’ll be moving in and they’ll be together like husbands and raising a little boy together. A band of metal or a piece of paper won’t make that any more real, won’t give it a deeper meaning than the love they have for each other already does. Marriage was never a life goal for Dean, never something that was on his To-Do list until the threat of Lisa leaving him became a real possibility. This key, for all intents and purposes, is the only type of proposal Dean will likely ever do.

He’s lucky today, too. It’s the last day of the Big Show in Rock Springs, so most of the people will be gone to watch the fireworks to tide them over for another year. Maybe he and Cas can have the personal, rightful moment they both deserve after all the bullshit they’ve been through.

It’s less than thirty minutes away, and bless Cas’ enduring patience that keeps him quiet and smiling the entire time. Dean is sweating bullets, he’s sure of it, despite the dryness of his collar and the arid heat pouring in through the windows. Cas is a calming presence, but Dean can still feel the tiny, ghoulish sensation of spiders hatching in his chest and needling his insides with woe and dejection.

Bad habits are hard to break, but he’ll get there eventually. Dean can actually think that and believe it, which is proof in and of itself.

He parks the Impala along the rounded sidewalk, the tires dangerously close to spilling into the walkway, then cuts the power with a determined twist of his baby’s key before getting out and stretching. Dean shoves the keys in his other pocket, circles the front of the car, opens Cas’ door and squats. He’s not particularly chivalrous, but Cas’ ankle needs rest and Dean would be lying if he said he didn’t like carrying his hot boyfriend around.

Cas sighs and fumbles his way onto Dean’s back, holding tight and complaining under his breath about how silly he feels. He’s just going to have to deal with it though, because it’s not like they have crutches or a wheelchair or any other viable option.

Dean walks along the sidewalk until they’re at the short, red, single lane bridge. They cross it easily, and Cas points out all the colorful birds and flowers like he’s never seen them before. He’s probably nervous too, trying to fill the awkward, empty space with cheerful remarks.

And then they are there, alone on an island beneath a small canopy of vibrant, verdant trees. No one else is here, not that he can see, and it’s pretty much the most perfect thing Dean could have asked for.

“It’s beautiful,” Cas says, slowly lowering himself from Dean’s back and sitting on the thick blanket of fresh-cut grass.

“Yeah,” Dean agrees, unable to tear his gaze from the man he loves, from the man who has ruined him for anyone else. “Cas,” he says, bold and brave and the opposite of everything he’s feeling, commanding Cas’ attention until they’re staring at each other with equal intensity.

Cas tilts his head, and that’s it, Dean’s done for. He’s loved that adorable, puppy-like habit since he first saw it in Bobby’s garage and it still hits him the same way every time.

“You know I love you, right?” Dean asks, though he doesn’t mean it to be a literal question. It’s the first strike against his own defenses, breaking down that impregnable wall he’s fortified with years’ worth of pain and memories and loss.

“Of course,” Cas smiles, taking Dean’s hand in his.

“I want us to work, Cas. This thing we have, our relationship or whatever you want to call it, it’s good, really good,” he starts, still the same scrabbling dimwit he’s always felt like when it comes to using the English language. “I’m happy, and that’s…it’s a big deal for me, and I want to hang on to that for as long as I can. I want to hang on to _you_ , if you don’t mind me clinging to your ankles, anyway,” he huffs a self-effacing laugh, his skin flushing with the evidence of his bashful fear.

Cas is nodding, tightening his grip on Dean’s hand. His smile shrinks, but not of out of sadness. Cas is picking up on the weight of the gift, the severity of Dean’s words and trembling hands.

Dean might as well get to it before Cas can start asking questions.

He reaches into his pocket with his free hand, pulling out the slender box and handing it over, his head hanging low with eyes locked steadfastly on a blade of grass between them. Cas takes it with steady fingers, releasing Dean’s hand so he can open the metal latch, the final barrier between him and the gift he’s been waiting a long, arduous time for.

Then it’s open, and Dean’s throat constricts so much that he’s barely able to squeak out, “move in with me,” before it collapses and he can’t speak at all.

There’s a few seconds between Cas opening the box and Cas crushing his lips against Dean’s, practically tackling him until he’s flat on the ground and pinned by determined, hungry limbs.

Dean kisses back with a renewed sense of self, relief and devotion coursing through him as he rediscovers Cas’ mouth and all the noises that accompany it.

It’s the biggest ‘yes’ he’s ever heard, and Cas hasn’t even said anything yet.

As Dean licks back into Cas’ mouth, he realizes that this man is _his_. He pulls away long enough to nip at the lush, silky flesh of Cas’ lips, thinking _mine_ , _only mine_ , _finally_. Dean can taste the raspberry sauce lingering on Cas’ tongue, so sweet and syrupy that he can’t help but put his lips around it and pull. Cas whimpers, letting Dean lick and suck his saccharine tongue clean until they’re both grinding each other through the fabric of their sweatpants.

When Dean surrenders Cas’ tongue, Cas makes a breathy noise between a moan and a whine that goes straight to Dean’s already throbbing dick. He can feel the sticky beads of pre-come leaking onto his feverish skin, and it snaps him free of whatever tight, unrelenting grip Dean’s had on the wall holding him back. He clutches at Cas’ hips so tightly that his lover gasps, rolling them over until Dean’s on top and between those long, beautiful legs.

Cas tilts his head back, and Dean’s mind flashes to a memory of the first time they touched like this, when he couldn’t resist the pull of Cas’ siren song any longer, hoisting him up against the wall and thrusting them both to a boxer-clad climax. Cas had tilted his head back then, a silent invitation for Dean to mark him, but he was too distracted with need and lust to give Cas what he clearly wanted.

Dean’s not going to waste this opportunity like the last: he’s going to savor every moment of this, of _his_ man unraveling beneath him, claiming any and every part he’s willing to offer up.

He licks a stripe over Cas’ pulse point first, the heavy thudding palpable under Dean’s tongue, pulling another moan from Cas’ throat. Dean finds a soft patch of skin just above the collar bone, latching on with a tender, insistent bite. He sucks and licks until the heady salt of Cas’ skin is gone, leaving a rose-colored bruise of worshipful tenure in its place. Dean loves the way it looks, loves that anyone who looks at Cas for the next week is going to see it and know he’s taken, unafraid to wear that badge with pride.

Cas’ lips are wet and parted, his eyes screwed shut against the setting sun. Dean reclaims Cas’ mouth with a deeper kiss, swallowing the small, surprised breath for himself. _Mine_ , he thinks again, _those moans are mine_.

They kiss until they’re dizzy from it, lips buzzing and raw and billowed. Dean can’t stand it anymore, can’t take not having himself completely in and around his lover, as if such a thing were even possible. He can’t even wait long enough to take Cas back to the Impala, to ravage him somewhere more secluded and safe for them to be so vulnerable. There’s no one here, they’re all thirty minutes away and awaiting a different kind of fireworks show.

Dean breaks the kiss and runs his tongue over Cas’ ear, shoving his hands up Cas’ shirt and greedily gliding his palms over the muscled, heated flesh. “Please,” Dean begs, his lips brushing over a patch of stubble, “please, Cas, let me fuck you. Need you so bad.”

A shiver jolts through Cas at the sound of Dean’s pleas, leaving him trembling and frenzied in a way Dean can actually feel with his fingertips. Cas nods, grasping at Dean’s shirt like an anchor to keep him from going wild with need, his hips bucking up in anticipation.

Dean smiles as he pries Cas’ grip from his clothes, pushing Cas’ hands above his head, followed by his shirt. Dean tosses the shirt somewhere over by the nearby tree, then kisses his way down Cas’ chest until his eager lips find a hard, sensitive nipple. He’s never really seen the appeal for them before, never paid them much attention, but as Dean locks his lips around it and sucks, he thinks he finally gets it. It’s supple and velvety under his tongue, a responsive little bud that has Cas crying out and twitching with pleasure. Yeah, this is something Dean could definitely get used to.

He doesn’t linger over Cas’ chest for long, moving slowly downward until his bottom lip catches on the hem of Cas’ sweats. Dean kisses the soft, dark trail of hair peeking out as he drags the pants and briefs down at once, chuckling at the way Cas hisses when his bare ass connects with the sharp, damp sward.

“Shh,” Dean soothes, kissing the tops of Cas’ thighs. Cas is trembling still, but not for lack of warmth. The sun is dipping into the horizon, but it’s hot and the earth is sunbaked beneath them. Cas is perfect like this, a framed work of art just for Dean, laid out and leaking a steady stream of that sweet, pearly liquid that’s starting to pool around the slit. Dean leans forward and laps it up, running his tongue over the sensitive head and leaving it glossy with spit.

Cas’ hands are at his sides, digging into the earth for purchase. “Come on, Dean,” he breathes, arching his back ever so slightly, “fuck me.”

“Gotta open you up first, babe,” Dean says, trailing a finger along Cas’ inner thigh until he’s touching the tight, deceptively delicate ring of muscle.

Cas groans at that, but Dean doesn’t push a merciful finger inside him just yet. Instead, Dean leans back and rubs his hands over Cas’ legs, spreading them open until they’re splayed obscenely wide. Dean inches forward, hooking his hands behind Cas’ knees and pushing. He doesn’t stop until Cas’ knees are up by his shoulders, his ass lifted off the ground and on display.

God, Cas is so fucking gorgeous, so goddamn perfect it hurts.

Dean hesitates, eyeing the pink rim in front of him. He wants to taste Cas, to take him in his mouth and open him up with just his tongue. Dean’s never had that desire before, never quite saw the appeal of it either, but he’s swept up in the moment at the sight of Cas spread out and folded in half. He tilts his head down and kisses it first, feeling it flutter under his lips as Cas whimpers and curls his toes. It’s enough to lure out Dean’s tongue, a broad stroke lapping over the hole once, then twice. Cas is writhing and pushing back into the touch, and holy shit, Dean could get used to this too.

He wasn’t sure what he expected, but Dean sure as hell wasn’t expecting _this_. Cas tastes like sun-soaked skin and copper, almost how feverish skin tastes after sex but sweeter and much, much warmer. It’s soft, too, unbelievably so: the way it moves and opens so easily for his tongue, how it feels like satin or silk against his excited, eager mouth. Cas is a quivering mess, panting and keening like he just can’t get enough, like he could come from this alone, and Dean is harder than he’s ever been before in his life.

“Ready,” Cas whines, tilting his hips, “please, Dean, I’m ready.”

Fuck, Dean doesn’t want to stop, but he can’t ignore Cas’ plea or how achingly, torturously hard and flushed they both are, their bodies begging for release. Dean gives that sweet hole a final kiss, then sits up straighter and lines himself up. He takes a deep breath to get himself back under control – he doesn’t want to come the moment he finally gets to his favorite part – then pushes in slowly until he’s fully encased in his lover’s tight, wet, flawless heat.

Dean can’t believe that he never let himself top before Cas came along, that he used sex as punishment when he hated himself too much to do anything else. He didn’t know how fucking amazing it could feel, didn’t know that his heart could explode from how much he loves the man beneath him.

He leans forward until their bodies are pressed together, rutting into Cas so fast and hard that he knows he’ll have grass stains on the knees of his sweats that’ll never come out. The setting sun is beating down on them, so hot and slick, and the noises Cas is making shouldn’t even be legal. Dean takes Cas’ head in his hands, kissing along his hairline and licking the small beads of sweat on his neck as Cas wraps his legs around Dean’s waist, pulling him in deeper.

They’re too far gone with need to slow down, especially with the way Cas keeps tilting his hips up and crying out for Dean to fuck him _harder, more, right there, oh God._ Cas comes hard, shaking, slicking their bellies and tightening his channel like a vice around Dean’s cock. Dean pounds into him through his orgasm, not stopping or slowing until Cas’ face is slack and sated and satisfied.

Dean can’t get enough of the way his man tastes, the way he feels under his tongue, so he pulls out of Cas and sucks on the sloppy mess covering his stomach. Cas gasps and looks at Dean with wide, unbelieving eyes, watching as Dean licks him clean and swallows every last drop pooled in his navel.

“So fucking good,” Dean moans, thrusting back into Cas and fucking him just as relentless as before, “you taste so fucking good.”

Cas whimpers, his hands clutching at Dean’s shoulders hard enough to bruise. _He’s mine_ , Dean thinks again, _he’s mine_. God, he’s never been possessive before, not like this, but he’s never wanted someone so much as he does right now. He wants to keep Cas just like this, so needy and sweaty and beautiful, like they’re the only two people in the world that matter.

Dean’s rutting falters as he comes, his legs exhausted and aching, collapsing on top of Cas and kissing him rough and thorough. He wants Cas to taste himself, to know how delicious and mouthwatering every part of him is, and Cas takes it and kisses back. Little moans and noisy huffs punctuate the wet sound of their mouths working together as they calm down, their kiss slowing and stopping so they can catch their breath.

“Jesus,” Cas says, wiping the back of his hand over his forehead. He pauses then, stilling beneath Dean, then bites his lower lip and chuckles. “I just took the Lord’s name in vain.”

Dean laughs, pushing himself up and off Cas and rolling over onto his back. Cas reaches for his sweats, tugging them on and raking his fingers through his hair, causing it to stick up in ten different directions. Dean pulls him close, guiding him so that Cas’ head is resting on his chest, their legs tangled together. “That was a yes, right?”

“You didn’t actually think I would say no, did you?”

Yeah, Dean did. He’s starting to see the fault in that though, how poisonous he’s been to himself and how muddied his thoughts have been for so long. Was there ever a time when Dean was happy, when he didn’t hate himself? He barely thought of himself at all after the fire, focusing on taking care of Sammy, on making sure John was okay, ignoring his needs and wants in the process.

Poison, he thinks, works best when it’s slow and has time to build. That’s what happened to Dean: he let John poison his mind, poisoned himself, and it snowballed into whatever he had become, into who he was just half a year ago. He didn’t even see the problem with it, he thought he was just being honest and couldn’t understand how anyone would disagree.

But now, as he holds Cas in his arms and basks in the afterglow of amazing sex, Dean doesn’t think it matters much if he was ever happy before. He’s happy now, he’s completely and utterly head-over-heels in love and over the freakin’ moon.

“We should get back to the Impala,” Dean says, dodging the question and kissing the top of Cas’ head. “Don’t wanna fall asleep outside again.”

Cas tilts his head up, looking into Dean’s eyes with a warm, pleasured smile. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t have to, because the look alone tells Dean everything he needs to know. Cas understands. He sees Dean for who he is and loves him anyway.

All in all, whatever they have is pretty goddamn special.

☼ ☼ ☼

Dean is a fucking idiot.

It’s an indisputable fact at this point, backed up by science and mathematical equations – hell, a college student could write a thesis paper on all the ways Dean is wholly, irrefutably stupid.

Exhibit A: The moment Dean heard about Ruby’s death, he packed his bags and immediately hit the road. He didn’t stop to think about how he’d actually get into the funeral, or how he’d convince Sam to come back to Kansas with him. That’s assuming he even finds his brother, what with him being _missing_ at all, but for some reason that little factoid didn’t strike him as that important.

Exhibit B: Instead of coming up with a viable plan, Dean has decided to simply wing it and see what happens in the midst of chaos. It’s pretty much the same way he approaches his shooter games, like he’s Rambo and bullet proof and can re-spawn after ten seconds. Sure, Dean gets a shit ton of kills, but he also dies more often than is strictly necessary. He can’t afford to make mistakes this time, real lives are caught in the crosshairs and he’s down to his last clip.

He and Cas have spent the last few days in a state of mutual euphoria, practically honeymooning and fucking on every surface they could find. That’s marvelous and all, but now that it’s the actual day of the funeral, Dean kind of wishes they spent a little more time figuring some shit out.

Ruby’s funeral is in an hour, but they’re still at the motel they rented a few miles away. Neither of them expect to be admitted inside the church, not when the death is so high profile and half the people going are Stanford faculty. They’d driven by it a few hours earlier to pick up some breakfast, and weren’t the least bit surprised when they saw news vans already parked along the perimeter of the lot.

Sam might not even be there. Dean couldn’t muster the strength to go his father’s funeral, so it wouldn’t be hard to imagine Sam not wanting to go, not wanting the additional proof that the woman he loves is dead and gone. He doesn’t think what Sam and Ruby had was love, not that he saw enough of it to be sure, but drugs are tricky bastards and he’d be willing to bet it was more about co-dependency than any actual feelings.

Dean’s no love expert, but he’s pretty sure he could be a poster boy for that other thing.

Nausea creep-crawls up from the floor and over his legs, wrapping around his gut and squeezes tight. His bones feel feather-light and hollowed out, like they’d snap under the slightest pressure, and he has no idea what that means. The vines of nausea slither further up his chest, heavy and thick and slow, and his breathing shallows.

Dean can’t tell if it’s a panic attack or not. It’s different than what he’s used to, makes him feel sick and tired and weak. He’s lying on his back on the lumpy motel bed, his legs hanging off the edge with his feet planted on the ground. Planted seems like the right word, because he suspects that if he tried to lift or move them, they wouldn’t budge.

Cas, bless him, brews the miniature pot of coffee and sets a steaming cup on the nightstand, sitting beside Dean on the bed. He glides a gentle hand over Dean’s chest, a reassuring caress that he knows is supposed to help. It does, marginally, enough to scare away the tendrils of nausea and fear that settled over him in thick, tangled webs.

“It’s going to be okay, Dean.”

Yeah, and he and Cas are going to sail away in the Impala like Danny and Sandy into the sky. Right.

“I mean it,” Cas pushes, reading the disbelief on Dean’s face, “I have a good feeling about this.”

Dean huffs, groaning. Good feelings never got him very far before, and it would be a bold-faced lie to say he’s feeling anything other than dire, shuddersome dread.

Cas’ hand makes its way up to Dean’s face, cradling his jaw while his thumb strokes over the smooth, freshly shaven skin. Dean takes a deep breath and leans into the touch, turning slightly so he can kiss the heel of Cas’ palm. Cas bends forward and steals the kiss for himself, his hand staying put on Dean, the tips of his fingers brushing over the lobe of Dean’s ear.

“I just want _him_ to be okay. Even if he doesn’t come back with us, you know? I don’t want to lose him all over again.”

It’s an exercise in honesty, and Dean almost surprises himself with how open and candid he’s been in the last few days. He’s never been so comfortable confiding in someone, so willing to trust and feel safe. Cas has been nothing short of perfect, even now, and hasn’t abused the bridge between them that keeps Dean forthright and genuine.

“I know,” Cas hums, taking a sip of his coffee, “but I should remind you that if Sam doesn’t want to return to Lawrence, if he’s not alright, you still need to take care of yourself. You cannot let it drag you back down. You’ve come such a long way, Dean, and you deserve happiness regardless of what happens today.”

Dean doesn’t even want to think about living the rest of his life without Sam, doesn’t want to imagine living day-to-day knowing his brother is out there somewhere getting high or slowly dying. He knows Cas is right, that he can’t throw away all the miles he’s trekked in the last six months over something that’s not technically his fault.

He’ll beg Sam if he has to, he’ll drop to his knees and wrap his arms around those gargantuan legs and won’t let go for the world. He’ll promise Sam the fucking moon and the stars if it means he’ll get in the Impala and come home.

“Yeah,” Dean acknowledges, offering Cas a weak, lazy smile. He doesn’t want Cas to worry, not like he did the last time when everything went to hell in a hand basket. Cas shouldn’t have to go through all of that again, shouldn’t have to see Dean fall apart or punch the steering wheel or cry.

“Are you ready?” Cas asks, standing up from the bed. He sees Dean frown and grimace like a child, then motions toward the cup of coffee still waiting on the nightstand. “You’ll feel better if you have some caffeine. I know you didn’t sleep well last night.”

That’s an understatement, alright.

Dean’s not even sure if he actually fell asleep. He tossed and turned and twitched for hours, unable to get comfortable, unable to clear his mind or focus on something relaxing. Cas had been snoring softly beside him, and while that usually does the trick, he probably would have needed a horse tranquilizer last night to get his eyes to stay closed.

He sits up on the bed, which ends up being much harder than it should be. His bones don’t just feel fragile, they feel like someone scooped out all the marrow and replaced it with gross, wiggly gelatin.

The coffee is hot but surprisingly refreshing despite the sweltering temperature outside. Dean lets it slide down his throat without a fuss, enjoying the warm, pooling sensation in his stomach. He feels it working almost immediately, thank God, because time waits for no one and the funeral gets closer with every passing minute.

“Alright, dammit. Let’s go.”

Cas just smiles and winks at him: the cheery, optimistic bastard.

They head out to the Impala and take off, driving through relatively decent traffic until they’re almost there. Dean can’t help the way he keeps his eyes peeled for anyone that looks like Sam, the way every tall brunette they pass makes his heart jump up into his throat. Cas keeps him steady with insistent fingers massaging the back of his neck, which is definitely becoming Dean’s most favorite thing in the entire universe, but stays respectfully quiet so nothing but Zeppelin and the murmur of other cars can be heard.

The church is enormous and beautiful - ostentatious, even. He’s never been fond of churches, never had a reason to appreciate the way they look, but he finds himself somewhat in awe of the stained glass windows and the deep, blood-red brick. There’s a tall black fence that surrounds the entire parking lot, metal and twisted into pleasing shapes like wreath and laurel. He can see right through it, so he knows the fence isn’t so much about privacy as it is just keeping people out.

It’s working, because apparently no one else is allowed to pass through the single entrance. The security officer told them as much, instructing them to loop around and drive a little further to an unpaved area where others are starting to park.

“Fucking motherfuckers,” Dean mutters, trying to carefully drive over the uneven terrain without messing up the undercarriage of his Baby. There’s a handful of cars and people walking about, making their way to the sidewalk that will lead them straight to the church. He doesn’t see Sam, just people who look kind of look like Ruby, crying or sullen or both.

Shit, this is really it. If Sam isn’t here, then he has no idea what else to do or where he could possibly be. Jessica said he would probably be here, but how would she know? Sam could be dead in a ditch somewhere, rotting and bloating with a needle stuck in his arm while Dean spent the last few days getting laid and loved and pieced back together. A second, stronger wave of nausea rises until he’s choking on it, sputtering and sweating like the idiot he is.

“Calm down, Dean, it’s okay,” Cas soothes, dropping his hand to Dean’s back and firmly kneading the tense muscles that have locked up and froze him in place.

“What if he’s not even here?” Dean challenges, gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles are white. “Then what?”

“He’ll be here,” Cas promises, and Dean doesn’t know how he can be so sure, how he can say it with such ease and confidence. Dean rests his head on the wheel, careful not to press the horn, and lets Cas work out all the stress and tension clinging to his back like a damn spider monkey.

“How do you know?”

Cas sighs, but it’s not from impatience or frustration. He’s remembering the last time they were here, remembering Ruby and whatever time they shared together when Dean was passed out cold. He shifts in the seat until he’s more comfortable, then says, “He loved her, and if Sam is anything like you, he likely feels guilty over her death. He wouldn’t miss this.”

Sam isn’t anything like Dean. He’s smart, so much more intelligent than Dean could ever hope to be, but sensitive in a way that Dean could never be, either. Sam feels things differently, senses the emotions of others and reads people just like they were one of his books. His brother could have been one hell of a detective, which is essentially half the job of a lawyer, anyway.

But who is Sam when it comes to death?

Sam was just a baby when their mother died, too young to know what was going on or to even remember her enough to miss her. They never got close enough to miss anyone when they left, never knew anyone who died except for their own parents, and Sam didn’t seem to care much at all that their dad kicked the bucket in his absence. He left Jessica behind pretty easily, too. Maybe Sam never really gave a shit about Ruby, maybe he doesn’t care that she’s dead as much as he cares that his drug supply is gone.

Dean doesn’t know what to say to that, doesn’t know how to answer Cas without freaking himself out further, so he says nothing.  

He opens the door and steps out, looking around and praying to God that Sam is here somewhere despite the odds. Cas gets out of the car too, straightening his ridiculous trench coat and smoothing his hair down. Dean is all for Cas dressing up and looking nice, but that khaki-colored monstrosity is a bit overkill and it’s not like they actually plan on attending the entire funeral.

“At least he’ll be easy to spot, right? Shouldn’t be hard to find the Sasquatch,” Dean jokes, trying desperately not to panic.

“Considering the number of reality shows dedicated to finding that creature with no such luck, I would have to disagree,” Cas intones, his face so straight and deadpan that Dean can’t tell if he was joking or not.

He rolls his eyes, giving up on talking for now.

They follow the rest of the mourning families toward the gated entrance, watching as each group speaks with the security officer and gets let in one at a time. Dean starts to feel nervous again, because it’s starting to look like the damn funeral has a guest list and his name sure as fuck won’t be on it. Cas takes Dean’s hand in his, the same thought zipping through both of their minds. They’re not going to be able to get inside the church.

It’s their turn, and the officer just eyes them skeptically for a moment before asking for their names. They haven’t seen anyone else be turned away, but that’s probably because no one else is dumb or desperate enough to go to a funeral without being invited.

“Novak,” Cas says, loud and with a smirk. It’s been a long time since Dean has seen him act this pompous, like name-dropping himself would actually work just because he comes from a huge, wealthy family that owns a mass of churches.

Oh, wait. Yeah, that might actually work.

The officer looks bored as he scans his sheet of paper, searching for a name that isn’t there. When he doesn’t find it, his expression drops and he shakes his head. “Sorry, can’t let you in.”

Dean’s heart plummets into his gut, or maybe all the way down into his intestines and out his ass. He can’t believe he did this to himself _again_ , that he let his hopes climb high and steady just so they could slip and fall back down. What are they supposed to do now? Wait until the funeral is over and hope they catch a glimpse of Sammy before he takes off or gets lost in the crowd?

If Sam isn’t even here, then they’d be wasting hours of their time not looking for him, sitting on their asses in the Impala with nothing else to do but mope and hope and pray.

Dean will have to leave the praying to Cas, though. God hasn’t exactly been listening to Dean’s prayers.

Also, what kind of asshole needs security and big, fancy gate for their funeral? How can a succubus from hell even have this many people in her life that cry over her loss? Sure, she was the daughter of some fancy, well respected administrator, but Dean guesses that all these people are here more for the father than for her. He knows he’s a little biased, but come on. The world got a little brighter the day Ruby stopped breathing.

Cas tugs on his hand, reclaiming Dean’s attention as they walk back over the cracked, weed-ridden sidewalk. It doesn’t seem fair that his quest to find Sam has already been cut short, that he’s barely even begun and there’s already a massive, hindering obstacle in their way.

“I’m sorry,” Cas pulls him in closer, hooking his arm around Dean’s elbow. “We’ll just have to wait until the funeral is over. It’s not a big deal.”

Not a big deal?

He can’t be mad at Cas for saying it, knowing he only meant to calm and encourage Dean with gentle, simple words. It feels like a big deal, like the biggest flippin’ deal he’s ever faced except for the fire, and he’s so pissed that he could spontaneously combust at any moment. Dean just wants his brother back home, safe, _sober_. Is that really too much to ask?

“This was stupid,” Dean spits, kicking his Baby’s wheels. “What if he really is missing? I don’t even have a current picture of him to give to the police. Fuck, how do you even report a missing person?”

Cas frowns, tilting his head. He looks at Dean with those piercing blue eyes that make him feel naked and overexposed. “I am sure the university would have a current photograph of your brother, since he would need one for his student identification card.”

As much as Dean hates feeling stupid, hates being corrected or patronized, he’s so damn grateful that Cas is basically a genius and can think these things through rationally. Dean is just too emotional right now to see anything clearly, and he knows Cas never means to put him down.

“Maybe we should go to the school, then. I mean, it’s probably closed for the summer or whatever, but there should still be some staff there, right? The school can’t run itself. It would give us something to do instead of waiting here for a few hours,” Dean suggests, eager to do anything proactive instead of _nothing_.

He looks to Cas for a response, but Cas’ eyes are trained elsewhere, staring off into the distance. His eyes widen and his lips part narrowly with a quiet breath. “I don’t think that will be necessary.”

“Why not?” Dean demands, irritated that Cas obviously isn’t taking this seriously.

Cas grabs Dean’s shoulder and jerks him around until he’s fully turned, facing the direction of wherever Cas had been looking. He normally wouldn’t let himself be manhandled, either, but his boyfriend has those ninja-fast reflexes that aren’t all that easy to escape.

Then he sees him, his baby brother, hands clutching the metal fence as he stares longingly at the church.

“Sam,” Dean breathes, the constricting vines falling off of him in snake-like, tangled clumps.

Cas squeezes Dean’s hand, reminding him not to yell or run or freak out, anchoring him and keeping him calm. Dean’s legs are shaking, itching to sprint towards his baby brother, but he knows what happens with skittish animals when they feel hunted. He doesn’t want to scare Sam away, doesn’t want him to feel threatened or cornered, so he walks toward the fence with Cas, painfully slow.

The closer they get, the more Dean can see how thin and sick his brother looks, worse than he was the last time Dean was here. Sam looks homeless, dirty and dressed in sweats and a t-shirt with only a flimsy pair of sandals under his feet. It’s a fucking miracle, he can hardly believe his brother is actually here and alive and not curled up under a bridge somewhere. Dirty and homeless are things Dean can fix, things Sam can survive and overcome.

“Hey,” Dean says when they’re close enough, keeping a small distance between them so Sam doesn’t unhinge.

Sam startles and turns, his colossal hands still tightly clutched around the fence. He stares at Dean, his chin quivering like he’s doing everything he can not to cry. He’s so pale, so thin, and it hurts to see how much he’s fallen apart. There are dried tear tracks running down his face, his eyes red-rimmed and watery.

Dean takes a step forward, but has to stop himself from reaching out. He doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know what to say, but the way Sam keeps looking at him without running off or scowling feels like a huge accomplishment in itself.

Then it strikes him that there’s really only one thing that can be said at a time like this.

“Bitch.”

Cas tenses beside him, turning to gape at Dean like he just said something terrible. Yeah, Dean supposes that without the right context, calling someone a bitch when you want them to go home with you seems pretty damn counter-productive.

Sam barks a weak laugh, a small smile flashing across his face for just a moment before it crumples and he devolves into tears. His head falls forward onto the fence, his body shaking as he sobs and mumbles incoherently about not being allowed inside the church. Dean still doesn’t know what to do, so he just keeps his distance until Sam finally settles, his breath hitching around every gulp of air.

When his brother is done, wiping the tears from his face with the back of his hand, he turns toward Dean again with pleading, broken eyes, and says, “Jerk.”


	29. Chapter 29

Dean has an armful of Sam after another tense minute, and this time it’s actually a hug.

Just a few years ago, Sam had been Dean’s height. As a big brother, it was Dean’s duty to feel offended by that, to tell him to shrink his happily growing ass before it became obligatory to knock out his kneecaps. Sam would laugh, call him a jerk, and go back to his homework.

Sam is easily three, maybe four inches taller than Dean now, so the hug is remarkably different than he’s used to. His moose of a brother actually has to lean down to rest his head on Dean’s shoulder, his massive wingspan encircling them both and keeping them close. Sam’s hair is longer, too, stringy and unwashed and brushing against Dean’s ear and cheek. It’s perplexing how someone so large can simultaneously feel so small, tottering and underfed. Dean is briefly reminded of John, the way he drank himself thin and frail despite his naturally stocky figure.

He’s not going to let that happen to Sam. He’s not going to let his brother destroy himself the way his father did.

“Sam,” Dean croaks, unable to stop the flow of tears steadily cascading down his cheeks, “you’re alive.”

Sam flinches, then holds him impossibly tighter through another round of sobs choking out of his chest. Dean can feel the shoulder of his jacket getting wet, but he doesn’t mind. Loss is a remarkably painful burden, a special brand of torture that lodges in the heart and never quite leaves, even as time passes by. Even if you think you’ve dislodged that serrated blade, it can come back without warning and shred you to pieces. Dean wouldn’t wish that kind of agony on anyone, but it’s an unfortunate part of life, a haunting misery that he knows himself all too well.

“I shouldn’t be,” Sam mourned, drying his eyes on Dean’s shoulder, “I wish I weren’t.”

“Don’t say that,” Dean pleads, running a comforting hand over his brother’s back. He knows that feeling too, the way sorrow and heartache sticks to the bottom of your shoes and follows you around like a shadow. He wishes he could take all of Sammy’s pain away, wishes he could carry the burden for both of them until his brother was strong enough to endure it.

Sam takes a deep breath, giving Dean a final squeeze before taking a step back, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Now what?”

It’s a question Dean wasn’t expecting, not that he actually had any expectations for how this trip would go, but he thinks it’s a good sign that Sam is asking for direction, asking for the next step to take. Dean doesn’t care if Sam is too sad and vulnerable to make a rational decision, he has no problem using it to his advantage to get his brother in the Impala and out of California. “Now we take you home - to Lawrence.”

Sam nods, and the clouds rumble in the sky before splitting and spotlighting him with bright, twinkling rays of sunshine. Dean can hear the chorus of angels singing and trumpets blasting, can see the woodland critters dancing and joining in on the song.

His brother just agreed to go back, and Dean didn’t even have to beg. It’s the miracle of all miracles, enough to make up for every other unanswered prayer or the days of dark, suffocating desolation. This makes it all worth it.

Sam looks up and glances at Cas, acknowledging his presence for the first time. His eyes narrow minutely, suspicion and uncertainty warring on his face. “Who’s that?”

Oh, right. Sam had been too drugged out to notice Cas had been in his apartment the first time.

“I’m Castiel Novak,” he supplies, taking a step closer to both of them. He spares a glance at Dean, searching his face for a clue of how he’s supposed to introduce himself. “I’m a friend of Dean’s.”

“Boyfriend,” Dean corrects, unashamed. It’s not until after he says it that he realizes it might be hard for Sam to hear, not because Dean isn’t straight or anything, but because Sam just lost the person he was dating and it might trigger another session of clinging and tears. Cas smiles and turns a soft shade of pink, and Sam just stares at them both for an awkward minute before reaching his hand out.

“Cool,” Sam says, shaking Cas’ hand. “Good to meet you.”

“Likewise, Sam. I’ve heard so much about you. Dean loves you very much.”

Normally Dean would turn red at that, or scowl at Cas for throwing him under the bus and embarrassing him, but Dean feels surprisingly content. He does love Sam, more than he’s ever loved himself, and it’s about time his brother knows it.

Sam just huffs with doubt, but Dean recognizes it for what it is. It’s not about thinking Dean doesn’t love him, it’s that Sam doesn’t feel like he’s worthy of the love. Just one more thing on the list that needs fixing.

“You need anything before we go?” Dean asks, not wanting to waste the opportunity to get on the road while Sam is still compliant.

Sam scrubs his face with the heels of his hands, raking long fingers through his equally lengthy hair. “Uh, yeah, I think so. Can we…can we stop by the apartment? So I can get my stuff.”

“Sure,” Dean says, placing his hand on Sam’s back and guiding him toward the Impala. He’s actually not that okay with it, he doesn’t want Sam to run off or get any drugs he might have stashed there, but he knows that their duffel bags are basically extensions of their own bodies and it would be cruel to leave Sam’s here.

When they get to the Impala, Sam immediately gets into the back and lays down. Dean wants to nag him to wear a seatbelt, because it would be both ironic and terrible to have made it this far only to lose his brother in a crash, but Dean can’t bring himself to make him. Sam is in pain, in every sense of the word, and he deserves to just lay there for a bit.

Cas seems curious and stunned, like he expected Sam to take his rightful place in the front passenger seat, but he says nothing when he gets in beside Dean. Cas smiles at him again, one that says _I told you I had a good feeling about this_ and _I love you_ at the same time. Dean winks at him, not wanting to get too mushy or loving in front of his ailing brother, and starts the car.

Dean remembers exactly where the apartment is. He’s seen it enough times in his recurrent, vivid nightmares; relived that awful day over and over as he tried to think about what he could have done differently. He could probably draw the entire layout from memory, furniture and garbage included, if he had a single artistic bone in his body.

It takes them a while to get there. Traffic is moving about as quickly as a herd of grazing cattle, slow and dumb and annoying. No one bothers speaking to void the silence, the radio stays off and Dean doesn’t honk his horn even when he wants to. He knows Sam must have a crazy cacophony of noise resounding his head, and he doesn’t want to make it any worse.

He parks the Impala as close as he can to their apartment. Dean steps out with Sam, but Cas remains in his seat with a solemn look on his face. Dean taps on the glass to get his attention, then motions for him to join them. Relieved, Cas gets out of the car and follows them to the door. Dean doesn’t want Cas to feel left out, not when he came all this way to help and provide support, and Sammy is big enough that if he tries to pull anything, Dean’s going to need all the help he can get.

Hopefully it doesn’t come to that, but Dean knows better than to wish for more than one miracle in a lifetime.

Sam remains silent as he unlocks the door and lets them in. The apartment looks pretty much the same except cleaner and a little emptier. Dean figures Ruby’s family took some of her stuff from the place when she died. Quite frankly, he’s surprised that his brother is even still living here. Sam looks mightily unkempt, like he’s been living on the streets rather than an upscale apartment. He wonders if it’s the grief or the drugs that are responsible for that.

“We’ll just wait for you here,” Cas offers, making his way to the couch and sitting down. Dean nods in agreement, sitting beside Cas and letting Sam trudge into the bedroom. “Thank you, Dean.”

“For what?” He asks, almost whispering.

“For telling Sam that I am your boyfriend,” Cas whispers back, taking Dean’s hand in his. “I wasn’t sure if you would.”

He feels bad, but knows Cas was completely justified in his skepticism. Dean hasn’t exactly been out and proud since he and Cas got together. He leans over and gives Cas’ temple a quick kiss. “I love you,” Dean says, still keeping his voice low and hushed, “and we’re going to be living together, right? Fuck anyone who cares about that shit more than we do.”

“Sam certainly didn’t seem to mind,” Cas notes, dropping his head to Dean’s shoulder. Man, Dean’s shoulder sure is getting a lot of attention today.

“Yeah,” he agrees, slowly, starting to feel suspicious about it. Sam didn’t seem fazed in the slightest, didn’t even bat an eye when Dean basically told his brother that he’s…you know, _bisexual_ or whatever.  He wonders if he should be bothered by that.

From the bedroom, Dean and Cas both hear the unmistakable sound of gross, heavy sobbing. Sam isn’t even trying to keep it concealed, to keep it quiet enough so that no one else will hear. It’s strange, almost unnatural to hear Sam crying this way, to hear Sam crying _at all_. His little brother was never a crier, no matter how many times he and dad fought or how angry he would get with the both of them. Sam was more a bitch-faced growler, yelling and stomping and throwing a fit until he stormed out. He got it from their dad, poor kid. Sam and John were like-sided magnets, practically the same person but naturally repelled by each other.

When the crying doesn’t let up after a few minutes, Cas nudges Dean in the side and says, “You should go check on him, make sure he’s alright.”

Yes, he probably should.

Dean’s never been good at handling his own emotions, let alone telling other people how they should handle theirs. He has no idea how to console a person, even if he does know exactly what it feels like to be in their position. Dean figures at the very least, he could just listen or be present for moral support. Sam used to do that for him, used to join him in the bedroom and just sit quietly beside him when Dean was having a rough time, usually after John gutted him with cold, cruel, callous words.

It shouldn’t be that hard to return the favor.

Dean rises from the couch reluctantly and heads toward the bedroom. It’s not that he doesn’t want to help his brother, he’s just afraid of saying or doing the wrong thing and fucking it all up. Sam being willing to leave California immediately is already almost too good to be true, and losing him over a conversation meant to be consoling would be devastating. Sam knows Dean isn’t the greatest with words, so hopefully his brother will go easy on him.

Sam is curled up on the bed, laying on top of the covers with his knees bent and tucked close to his chest. It’s not quite fetal position, he’s way too big to make himself that small, but he manages to look lesser and helpless anyway. If Dean’s heart wasn’t already crumpled and rolling around in his chest, seeing his brother this way would surely have shattered it.

“Sammy,” he breathes, approaching the bed with careful, timid steps. The mattress dips with a creak as Dean sits, but he doesn’t dare get any closer.

Sam bites his lip to muffle the cries, wiping his face over the pillow to dry the spilled tears. His arms tighten around himself, but it’s been so long since Dean has had to read the subtle body language of his brother that he’s not sure if Sam’s shielding his broken heart or trying to keep it together.

“I, uh…I know what it’s like, Sam. I think I know what you’re going through, and you can talk to me about it if that’s what you need. It’s hard to lose someone you love, and you’re going through a lot of other shit too. I get it,” Dean says, hoping like hell he got it right. Sometimes, it seems like trying to figure Sam out is a game of Battleship, and he really doesn’t want to ‘miss’.

“I didn’t love her,” Sam mumbles, his face softening into a pout. “You don’t get it.”

Dean’s really not surprised to hear Sam say he didn’t love Ruby. He never thought that was the case, but it was hard to tell through his brother’s pained moans and broken whimpers. He missed the mark by a wide margin, apparently, so he has to agree. Dean doesn’t get it at all.

“So talk to me,” he pleads, trying to catch Sam’s eyes. His brother is steadfastly staring at the wall, hazel eyes glossy and red.

“I liked her,” Sam starts, his voice barely above a whisper. He sniffs and blinks away the brimming tears threatening to spill, and it’s hard for Dean not to reach over and brush all that chestnut hair out of his face. “I did. But it stopped being about that after a while. Hasn’t mattered in a long time.”

Yeah, that’s what Dean figured. He knew that’s what happened to John, too. He knew that after a certain point, the drinking wasn’t about washing away the pain, wasn’t about forgetting the awful memories that itched under his skin. It became compulsory, consuming: it took over everything else, took over his heart and mind and he couldn’t function without it. It kills Dean to know his brother has experienced that particular demon, that despite how fiercely they wanted so much better for themselves, they both ended up just like John in one way or another.

“Something’s got you in its talons, Sam. You didn’t love her, that’s fine, but – just tell me. What’s wrong?”

Such a simple question, begging for a complex, disastrous answer.

“You wouldn’t understand,” Sam breathes, still speaking so quietly that Dean almost didn’t hear him. It’s a stark contrast between the wailing and the deep, guttural cries, and he’s not entirely sure how to handle that.

“Try me,” Dean urges, resting his hand on Sam’s knee. His brother doesn’t jerk away or even shift his gaze to the sudden weight on his leg, doesn’t acknowledge the gesture at all. Dean wonders how separated Sam is from his body, how much his mind as distanced itself from the harsh reality of his predicament.

After a moment, Sam finally pushes himself up and crosses his legs beneath him. His long arms fall to his sides, and it’s then that Dean first sees the tell-tale scarring on his brother’s veins, the evidence of his crippling addiction. Sam isn’t showing him on purpose, he’s just trying to relax against the headboard before explaining whatever it is he has to say, so Dean darts his eyes away before he’s caught gaping at the mottled, purple tracks on his skin.

“It’s my fault. She’s dead because…fuck, because I’m stupid. I killed her.”

There’s a brief moment of pause while Dean’s brain sputters to a stop. He’s not sure how long it was before it rebooted and he could think clearly again, but he guesses long enough to strike Sam as odd because he’s staring at Dean with worried, shameful eyes.

No, it’s not Sam’s fault. Dean knows it with every fiber of his being, knows that his brother isn’t responsible for the death of another drug addict, but he has no fucking clue how he’s supposed to respond to that.

Because Dean knows exactly what it’s like to feel that way.

Dean has lived his entire life with the guilt of a murderer, knowing someone died because of his foolish actions.

He never imagined in his worst, eviscerating nightmares that Sam would echo the same words Dean confessed to Cas less than a week ago.

Dean inhales, but the action feels unpracticed. He chokes on the air, wondering when in the hell oxygen got so thick and stale, and Sam pats on his back until he’s got his breathing under control. “Sorry,” he stammers, then returns his gaze to his Sam. “How?”

He doesn’t want to make Sam explain, knowing what it’s going to put him through to hash out the memory, but Dean needs the details to help put everything into context.

Sam chews on the inside of his cheek, an old nervous habit, and the sight sends Dean back into fond, timeworn memories that clash with the sickening weight of their current predicament. “We…we were gonna get clean. She had been sober a lot longer than me, and I – fuck, I wanted it just one more time. I begged her.”

Dean nods, his heart heavy as he listens to his brother’s confession. “Okay,” he prompts, after Sam had been silent for a few minutes.

“She got us more,” Sam chokes out, picking at the purpled bits of skin on his arm, “she took too much. She was sober and I…I ruined that. Just one more time, that’s all it was supposed to be.”

Sam’s breath hitches once, twice, then he’s squeezing his eyes shut as tears escape through the sealed lids, spilling down his cheeks. His hands cover his face and he’s crying again, shaking with sobs just like he had been before Dean came in and interrupted.

Dean doesn’t know what to do. He’s heard of people overdosing on heroin after being sober for so long, he understands the mechanics of it and knows there was nothing Sam could have done to stop it. Ruby’s sober body probably couldn’t handle the same dose she was used to taking, she didn’t think to start out small after years of abusing her body with the stuff. Christ, Dean is so fucking thankful that didn’t happen to Sam. He forgets how easily people can slip out of the land of the living, how one minute they’re taking just _one last hit_ and the next thing they know they’re crossing the River Styx. Dean knows he should stop thinking it, but thank fucking God it was Ruby and not his baby brother.

Worse yet is the irony of him trying to convince someone they didn’t actually kill another person. He refused to listen to Cas when he babbled on about Dean’s innocence and age and intent, so how the hell is he supposed to get Sam to believe the same?

The only thing he can think of, the only chance he has of setting Sammy straight, is telling him the secret.

Maybe if Sam knows what Dean did, that he killed their mother on accident but learned to cope in the aftermath, then at least there’s a chance that Sam would understand there’s still a life to look forward to. Maybe he won’t feel so alone.

Dean just hopes he doesn’t lose his brother over it.

He leans forward and pulls Sam into a hug, scared of making the confession a second time, terrified of his brother hating him and blaming him for a miserable life on the road. But he knows he must, because the awful truth of it all is that Dean is far more afraid of his brother leaping back into the pit, of Sam’s fate being sealed before he’s even had a chance to be truly happy.

Sam doesn’t fight the hug, he just leans into it and lets himself be held, and Dean is horrified for a flicker of a moment over the thought that this could be their last embrace. He wouldn’t blame Sam for not wanting to touch him after he hears what Dean has to say.

“I understand, Sammy,” he says, his own voice weakening around the shuddering lump in his throat.

“No you don’t,” Sam challenges, an invitation for Dean to both shut the fuck up and explain further.

“I really do,” he insists, letting his brother go, “there’s something I should have told you a long time ago, something about mom.”

Sam stills, his eyes widening as he looks at Dean with an expression he can’t decipher. He can’t tell if it’s anger or disgust or gloom, possibly even all three. “You didn’t,” Sam growls, and Dean’s not sure what he means by that.

“The fire…the one that killed mom. That was me. I started the fire, Sam. It’s my fault she’s dead, and I’m really sorry, but I do know what it’s like. I know how it is to feel responsible for someone’s death, but Sam – you gotta believe me, it gets better. It wasn’t your fault and it gets better.”

Dean feels drained, physically and emotionally, maybe even spiritually. Every part of him feels toxic and contagious again, just like it did all those years before Cas showed up in that bar alley and played good Samaritan. He looks to Sam again to try and read his expression, but what he sees sends a chill down his spine and instinct kicks in, inching him back minutely to ease the burden of violence in Sam’s eyes.

Sam clenches and unclenches his fists, taking deep, furious breaths that flare out his nostrils like a damn bull after a red flag. Dean has no idea what’s going on – he knew Sam would be upset, but he can’t figure out what’s causing the unfiltered rage seeping out of every orifice on Sam’s body.

“Sam?” He braves, his voice timid and weak. When Sam’s eyes turn from vicious to murderous, Dean sucks in a shallow breath and scoots back.

“You didn’t,” Sam finally replies, repeating his earlier statement. “You – goddamnit, he was supposed to tell you. He should have told you.”

“Who?” Dean gapes, eyes narrowing in confusion. “Who should have told me what?”

Sam falls back into the headboard, scrubbing his hands over his face with a long exhale. Wrath still simmers under his skin, the threat of violence still potent in the air even as he drags the back his hands over his eyes. Dean is starting to get really fucking confused. He was pretty sure they were having a conversation about mutual guilt, but now he’s not so sure.

Sam blinks away the stray tears and a bit of the fury as well, regaining his composure. He picks at his skin again, which is something Dean needs to make a mental note about, but then Sam is speaking again and Dean loses his train of thought.

“I guess dad never told you why I left,” Sam spits, which makes Dean feel like a little kid who can’t connect the dots.

Dean was under the impression that John never knew why Sam left, because he couldn’t bring himself to tell his father about their fight. He didn’t want to be responsible for that too, and when their dad didn’t seem to care either way, Dean figured it was best not to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“What does that have to do with anything?” he asks, starting to feel a little indignant himself. Sam better get to his point quick because Dean is starting to get pissed at all the little dots that don’t look like they add up.

“You didn’t start the house fire, Dean. Dad did.”

That’s funny, Dean could have sworn his brother just said that John started the fire.

He lets the words sink in, unresisting as they crawl over his flesh and squirm around his ears, wriggling into the canal and burying deep behind the drums. He’s too shocked to be angry, too scared to feel violated, and the result is a weird sensation he’s never felt before blooming in his stomach and erupting out of him with unrelenting force.

Dean is dry heaving over the edge of the bed, shaking with what can only be described as disbelief. How the fuck would Sammy know? He was just a stupid, blathering baby still shitting in his pants when it happened. Of course Dean started the fire. He lit his mother’s scented candle, and John wouldn’t have confirmed Dean’s guilt outside their burning home while he stood barefoot in the snow with tears and snot all over his face if it wasn’t true.

When Dean finally settles his stomach and his nerves, he rises from the bed and stands shakily on his feet. “How the…how would you know? Fuck, Sam, you don’t even know that much about what happened that night, and you come at me with this bullshit?”

“Are you kidding me? You think I couldn’t hear all the shit dad used to say to you? You think I didn’t pay attention all the times you got drunk and mumbled about it?”

Shit, could Sam really hear those fights? Was he really listening every time they barked hushed whispers at each other when they though Sam wasn’t around?

He tries to picture it, tries to sense Sam in the shadows of his foggy memories with John. It’s true that his brother had been there to witness many a fight, to see the aftershocks of John’s rage budding black and blue across his cheekbones the morning after. Still, Dean can’t seem to find his brother lurking through those muted recollections, can’t conjure a Dream-Sam where he should never have existed in the first place.

As revoltingly sick as Dean feels, he doesn’t want to fight with his brother, not now. They’re so close to success that he can taste it like metal in the back of his throat, so close to returning to normalcy that his bones vibrate with anticipation. He’s got to put a lid on this right now, before it all bubbles over and boils out of control.

“I’m sorry you had to hear that shit, Sam. I didn’t want that for you,” he says, dropping his gaze to the floor. God, he’s spent his whole life avoiding this subject with his brother that now Dean has no idea how to broach it. “But if you heard all that, then you should know, right? I lit the damn candle, so it’s my fault.”

Sam settles a bit under Dean’s calmer tone, but the look on his face is just as determined and stone-set as it was before. At least Dean is used to seeing _that_ face, used to dealing with stubborn, bull-headed assholes, so the familiarity only tranquilizes him further. He can do this.

“No,” Sam breathes, shaking his head. He looks confused for a moment, and Dean wonders if his brother is finally putting the pieces together in his mind, but then Sam starts up again with, “fine, you started the fire. So tell me, what happened after you lit the candle?”

Dean opens his mouth to release a witty retort, but finds himself blanking completely. “Does it matter?”

Sam snorts, smirking. “Yeah, it kinda does. Think about it, Dean. Tell me what happened after you lit the candle, and maybe I’ll believe you.”

Dean is cursing at himself under his breath, clenching his jaw to keep from screaming it out loud. How exactly is he supposed to _not_ fight with his brother when Sam is playing all these stupid mind games? And for fuck’s sake, what is Sam smirking about? What does he know that Dean doesn’t?

It’s driving him abso-fucking-lutely crazy.

He knows from experience that there’s no winning against his brother. Sam is like some kind of brain sorcerer, impossible to outwit or even fairly joust with the English language. Besides, it’s not like there’s anything to actually win here. Dean’s not going to feel victorious if he manages to prove his guilt, not going to feel any better about this conversation, so he settles on simply answering his brother to the best of his ability. Might as well get it over with.

Dean has to think about it for a moment. He remembers that night with haunting clarity, but there does seem to be a few missing scenes between him lighting the candle and his mother tumbling down the stairs.

“The candle was in the living room,” he says, squinting at nothing in particular, “I used dad’s lighter, then, uh…”

After a moment of silence, Sam asks, “Then what?”

“Shuddup,” Dean snaps, feeling frustrated with his suddenly muddy memory. “I think…I’m pretty sure I heard mom and dad fighting, heard dad coming down the stairs, so I hid under the dining table. The fuck does it matter, Sam? Seriously, you are starting to piss me off.”

He’s trying desperately to sound intimidating, to establish his formidable presence in this conversation, but he’s failing so thoroughly that he almost turns red at the thought. He’s practically towering over Sam now that he’s standing, but his brother’s intense stare is like a steamroller flattening him into the ground. How is Sam even capable of rational thought right now? Shouldn’t he be high or tweaking out or something? Yeah, that’s probably what this is about. Sam’s just a little nuts from all the drugs. That’s it.

“If you were hiding under the table, how’d you set the house on fire?”

Goddamnit it all to hell. Sam and his fucking twisted-ass logic, getting Dean all spun around and dizzy. The candle probably fell or some shit: how is he supposed to know? Dean lit the candle and the candle caused the fire, therefore Dean caused the fire. Simple ‘if-this, then-that’ linear logic. Sam’s supposed to be the smart one here, isn’t he?

“You sound like you know, so why don’t you fucking tell me? I mean, you were there and all, right? I’m sure you remember it better than I do,” Dean spits, sarcastic and mocking. He folds his arms over his chest, feeling far too cynical and guarded to handle this rationally. How did this conversation get derailed so quickly?

“The night before I left – do you remember what happened?”

Sam isn’t smirking anymore. The brave face is slipping and making way for the earnest, brokenhearted puppy eyes just beneath the surface. Yeah, Dean remembers what happened, like he could really ever forget.

Dean had been at the Roadhouse. He just wanted to get sloppy drunk, just wanted to forget the stupid fight he had with John, but Ellen cut him off too early and sent him home. He considered going a second round with Benny, but he already smelled like someone else’s cologne and he didn’t want John figuring out what Dean had been up to with other guys.

He stumbled home around two in the morning to find Sam and John at each other’s throats, per usual. Sam stormed off the moment Dean entered the room, slamming their bedroom door for emphasis. John was nowhere near sober, not that he expected him to be, but his eyes were also glazed over with something undefinable. He shoved at Dean and starting yelling at him, calling him a mistake, blaming himself for turning Dean into a worthless son.

By the time Dean made it to the bedroom, John had busted up his face real good, and the rest was history.

“Yeah, you called me an abused housewife and said you weren’t putting up with my shit anymore. Something about being a brainwashed little soldier, too. Fun night.”

Sam frowns, but Dean isn’t sure why. It could be for a million reasons, though he wishes it were guilt. He still doesn’t want his brother to be in pain, but that night was one of the worst in his life and it would be nice to get just a tiny bit of retribution.

“Dad and I were fighting,” Sam clarifies, his voice soft and low now. “He was drunk, and he said some things I couldn’t ignore. He told me what really happened the night of the fire.”

Dean tries to subdue the churning in his gut, the race of his heart, but he can’t.

Sam takes a deep breath, “Dad said…well, he was weeping about killing Mary. Said he ruined everything, including you. I ask him what he meant, and he told me. I think he was too drunk to censor himself.”

Dean’s fingers start to feel a little tingly. He wonders what that means.

“He said he and mom were fighting. They brought their fight downstairs so they wouldn’t wake us up. He…Dean, he said he was so pissed that he grabbed the closest thing and just flung it at her. He threw the candle at mom.”

Dean blinks. It’s also possible he’s forgotten how to breathe.

“I couldn’t stop yelling at him, Dean. I lost it. I called him a manipulative bastard, a piece of shit. I told him that if he didn’t tell you, I would leave and never come back,” Sam says, his voice catching on the faint, wet breaths of budding sorrow. “But then you came to the bedroom covered in blood and making excuses for him. You took his side, even after he split your lip. I couldn’t…God, I thought I hated both of you. I thought you two deserved each other,” Sam was back in tears, but not the gut-wrenching kind that comes from the heart. They’re subtle tears, full of regret and shame, the kind that comes from the soul.

Dean…well, he doesn’t really know what the fuck he’s doing right now. He can’t seem to move his extremities, can’t even begin to wrap his mind around everything Sam just said.

“No,” he says, but not exactly by choice. His body is running away again, not letting his brain play catch-up while he sorts through the new information. “Dad said it was my fault. He wouldn’t…he wouldn’t lie to me like that. Not about mom.”

“But he _did_ , Dean. He said he didn’t want to go to jail, he was afraid of being arrested and figured if he told the cops it was you, they’d let it go as an accident. I…shit, I thought once I left, he would have told you the truth,” Sam rises from the bed now, taking a hesitant step towards Dean with his arms out.

Somehow this turned into a real clusterfuck. Dean came in here to comfort his brother, to offer his menial advice on overcoming that particular brand of guilt, but now Sam’s the one hugging Dean and keeping him tethered to reality while Dean feels like he’s about to float away and pop.

Dean goes through the memory in his mind, over and over and over until he’s certain he’s analyzed every bit of it as thoroughly as possible. He lit the candle, then ran into the kitchen when he heard John coming down the stairs. He never stopped to think about how the fire caught on to the rest of the house, never questioned the blame placed on his shoulders by the father he trusted to always be right.

“You’re lying,” Dean whispers, not pushing out of the monster hold Sam has on him. “He was a bastard, but he’d never put that on me. He wouldn’t do that to his own son,” he continues, barely believing his own defense.

Maybe that’s why John was always on the run, moving them from one place to another without ever growing roots until they finally ended up back in Lawrence. He ran from his guilt in the most literal way possible, drank like a man on a mission, looked at Dean with eyes full of grief and anguish. He tries to see it all from this new perspective, tries to see John as a man of secret culpability, letting his son take the fall because he was too weak and scared and ashamed.

“I wouldn’t,” Sam says, hugging Dean impossibly closer, “not about this.”

☼ ☼ ☼ 

It only takes Sam a total of forty minutes to get ready: twenty minutes in the shower, and twenty minutes to pack all of his things into his duffel, slinging it over his shoulder in a practiced way that Dean knows far too well. Sam locks the apartment door and slides the key under the doormat, giving it one last lingering look before turning toward the Impala.

Dean gets behind the wheel, feeling rigid and tense like he’s been sprayed with starch. Sam returns to his place in the back, crawling over the bench seat and collapsing with a thud. Cas shuts door more gently than usual, afraid to make more noise than absolutely necessary.

It’s silent, and awkward.

Dean feels sick to his core. If he didn’t know any better, he’d believe that maggots hatched on his heart, burrowing and sucking on all the dead flesh the lump of his heart has turned into. They’re spilling over onto his other organs, eating him from the inside out and carving nests in his ribs.

Cas keeps looking at him with owlish eyes, oozing with sympathy and love and all the other shit Dean doesn’t think he can handle right now. Cas must have heard everything, it’s a small apartment and they weren’t exactly being quiet, but he hopes to Christ that Cas just lets it be and doesn’t try to treat Dean like a mental patient.

He tries not to think about it. There’s nothing he can do about it anyway, can’t change the past and certainly can’t change John, not now that’s a decaying corpse six feet under the ground. Dean doesn’t even know where to begin, doesn’t know how he’s supposed to deal with his entire life being one bullshit lie after another. He wishes he could dig up John’s remains and light them on fire.

_Salt and burn, you fucking asshole_.

“Hey, Dean?” Sam says, leaning over the front seat. It’s funny how gentle his voice is now, like he knows how fragile Dean must be after the shitty afternoon they’ve had. “Can we stop by the school real quick?”

“You forget something?”

“I want to say goodbye to someone,” Sam explains, digging an address out of his pocket, “I want to say goodbye to Jessica.”

“Oh,” Dean says, thinking it over. If Sam were trying to hatch an escape plan, he probably would have done it already. Jessica is on Team Dean anyway, and he knows she wouldn’t let him run off or get into trouble. “Yeah, sure.”

Cas enters the address on his phone, and they’re off.

The oppressive silence in the car this time has nothing to do with comfort. Dean can’t seem to find the will to live, let alone the will to speak, and both Cas and Sam are treating the silence like a fragile thing, like it will break if anyone dares to breathe too loudly.

The last thing Dean wants is for Sam to regret coming home with them, but the way things are going now he wouldn’t be surprised if Sam already does. He’s got to neutralize the thick, heavy weight of Sam’s confession before they end up spending the entire trip back in fearful, subdued silence.

“I like Jessica,” Dean manages to say, and he see the relief flooding Cas’ features almost immediately, “she’s a pretty cool girl.”

“She is,” Sam confirms, a small smile spreading across his face.

Cas shifts in his seat so that he’s looking at Sam. “Jessica will be delighted to see you, I’m sure. She spoke quite fondly of you.”

Sam’s smile broadens, beaming and unfettered like the Kansas sky, and Dean can’t help the twinge of jealousy he feels over it. He’s not sure if he’ll ever be able to smile again, not like that. “I miss her.”

Even if Dean can’t bring himself to smile or ignore the thunderous ache pulsing in his chest, he can still appreciate the lightened mood and the way Sam and Cas are grinning at each other. “Hilarious move by the way, telling Jessica that bit from Austin Powers. How did you keep a straight face through that?” Dean asks, keeping his eyes on the traffic.

Sam laughs, and it’s such a good noise to hear. It helps soften the bladed edges of his own despair, but doesn’t quite banish it completely. “I was drunk, and people wouldn’t stop asking me about where I was from. It was the first thing that came to mind, and she actually believed it. Got her to stop pestering me about my family, at least.”

“Now that I can understand,” Dean groans, knowing what it’s like to have people pry into his personal life when it’s none of their business. Cas scoffs beside him, rolling his eyes and muttering something about _typical Winchesters_ before he starts laughing, too.

The laughter dies out, and the silence settles into something more comfortable. Dean is doing what he can to not look like he’s about to jump off a cliff, and he must be doing a pretty good job because no one looks at him again with sympathetic eyes.

They pull up to the student housing and park in the lot. Sam is about to open the door and get out, but he pauses for a second and narrows his eyes. “Cas, are you a librarian?”

Cas’ eyes widen as he looks back at Sam, confused and intrigued. “No, why?”

Sam just shrugs and makes a noncommittal noise. “You kinda smell like a library, dude,” he answers, then gets out of the car and half-jogs toward the double doors of the dorm.

“Told you so,” Dean jokes, feeling slightly relieved to be out of his brother’s presence. It’s been such a tiring day, so it’s nice to not feel the pressure of having Sam right next to him for a few minutes. When he glances at Cas, he’s a little startled by the intensity of blue eyes analyzing him like Dean’s some kind of ink blot. He really, _really_ does not want to have this conversation right now, not when everything is still so fresh and tender and broken. “What?”

“How are you feeling?” Cas asks, the question layered with even more questions that he knows Cas wants the answers to.

What is Dean supposed to say? He just found out his whole fucking life is a lie, that his father blamed him for something that was never actually his fault. He believed himself to be worthless murderer unworthy of love and happiness for the last twenty years, all thanks to John. Everything he’s ever done or touched or felt has been tainted by that ugly lie, has shaped Dean into the man he is today.

John was a coward who used his eldest son as a shield against the cruelty of the world, against his own inner demons and darkness. Dean doesn’t know how to be anything else.

“Like shit,” he says, taking Cas’ hand in his own. He needs the extra reassurance right now, needs to feel safe and protected, and he’s not afraid to ask for it by reaching out to Cas first.

“Do you believe him?” Cas probes, squeezing Dean’s hand and running his thumb over the smooth skin. It confirms Dean’s suspicion that Cas heard everything, but as much as he hates feeling naked and exposed, it’s kind of nice not having to explain or repeat everything Sam said. He still doesn’t want to talk about it: Dean resolved not to say much until he’s had a few nights to think about it, to give himself the time he needs to organize everything clogging his brain, but this is Cas. Dean knows he can trust him with pretty much anything.

“I don’t know,” he answers honestly, “it changes so much.”

Cas nods, then brings Dean’s hand up to his lips for a quick kiss. “Can you promise me something?”

Quite frankly, Dean isn’t sure he’s capable of doing _anything_ , and probably isn’t in the right state of mind to be making promises, but he can’t turn Cas down when he’s looking so vulnerable and sincere. “Sure,” he mumbles, half-hearted.

“I know that what Sam said is…jarring, to say the least. I know it’s something that will take time for you to process, and that it changes almost everything you believed about your life, but I don’t want it to change _us_. You are amazing, Dean Winchester, and I want you to promise me that what happened today won’t change the way you feel about me.”

And just like that, Dean’s heart breaks all over again.

How easily he forgets that Cas is still scared of losing him, afraid that one of these days Dean will just up and leave without a word like he did before. Dean gave him the key, but presents can be revoked and Cas has every right to be nervous. It hurts so badly to know that the man he loves still feels that way, that he heard what happened between him and Sam and actually had to ask Dean not to leave him over it.

Even if he’s not a murderer, he’ll never be worthy of the man beside him.

“Cas…” he starts, pausing when he can feel tears flooding his eyes, “I love you. Nothing’s going to change that. Ever.”

Cas sighs with relief, then scoots over to the middle seat and plants a firm kiss on Dean’s lips. When he starts to pull away, Dean chases after him and catches Cas’ mouth with own. He doesn’t give Cas a chance to protest, working his lips open with an expert tongue until they’re practically consuming each other. They’re both teetering on the edge of something chilling and daunting, but Dean knows without a doubt that he’s not going to make it through this mess without him.

Sam taps on the window, jolting them both apart with an embarrassed chuckle. Dean can feel his cheeks turning red, but decides not to worry about it too much because at least his brother got a good visual lesson on how proper kissing is done.

“We good to go?” Dean asks as Sam gets in the back, sitting upright this time instead of laying down, snapping his seatbelt securely in place.

“Yeah. She wants to keep in touch,” Sam says, hopeful and smiling. It’s still strange to see him relatively happy, almost as if his day of relentless tears never happened.

Jealousy prickles under his skin. Dean wants to be happy, too.

Now that they’re officially headed back to Lawrence, Sam in the back and completely willing to be dragged back home, he thinks he’s got a pretty decent shot.


	30. Chapter 30

Sam’s good mood doesn’t last very long.

Dean startles awake at the sound of it – though he’s not entirely sure what _it_ is – and he has all of three seconds before he hears it again.

Someone is in the bathroom, and it sounds like they’re dying.

He reaches out on instinct to feel for Cas, who’s still deeply asleep and snoring softly beneath the tangle of covers. He fumbles around in the dark until he finds the lamp, flicking it alight. Dean looks toward the pull-out sofa next, which is completely devoid of an oversized little brother snuggled up and sleeping.

Dean darts out of bed in nothing but his boxers, which are actually more fitted and snug like briefs, but he’s too fucking scared to feel modest or self-conscious about it. He practically runs to the bathroom door, stumbling only slightly over his half-asleep feet, and knocks.

“Sammy? What the hell is going on in there?”

There’s no reply, but the sound coming from within must be a cross between dry heaving (if not actual vomiting) and the horrifying moans he heard his brother wail before. They’re different this time somehow, thicker and slower like they’re weighted down with bricks.

“Come on Sam, open up.”

Sam vomits, Dean can hear it clearly through the gap beneath the door, followed by the unmistakable clink of glass on tile.

What the fuck?

Dean’s heart starts doing that frustrating thing where it beats too fast and robs him of adequate oxygen, making his fingertips numb with a familiar tingle. Dammit, he can’t afford a panic attack right now, not when there’s something wrong with Sammy.

“Open the door!”

He’s yelling now, pounding on the bathroom door with clenched fists. Dean has no idea what time it is, but he knows he’s being far too loud for a motel room and someone could call the front office and complain. He stops, reigning in his anger so he can reevaluate the situation.

Cas is awake now – he’d have to be completely deaf to stay sleeping through the raucous tumult – staring at Dean like he just awoke during an earthquake and needs to find safe shelter. The sliver of fear burns silver around his muddled, sleep-fogged eyes. Dean shrugs his shoulders in what he means to be a reassuring gesture, mouthing _Sam’s in there_ to catch him up to speed.

“Go’way,” comes a slurred, too-deep voice from the bathroom, followed a hollow thunk against the wall.

Dean drops to the ground so he can peer under the door, which isn’t difficult since motel bathrooms never seem to take privacy into account when being built. He’s got about an inch of space that he can see through, just enough to see Sam’s feet and legs crossed and folded beneath him where he sits by the toilet.

Oh, and an almost-empty bottle of whiskey, too. Of course.

“Are you _drunk_?” Dean snaps, growling through the narrow opening. Where did Sam even get the alcohol? Dean didn’t notice any in the bedroom back in California, didn’t see Sam shove anything suspicious in his duffel, and he certainly didn’t buy any since they left.

There’s no response, just the sound of Sam’s heavy, labored breathing and a subtle whimpering that sends ice-cold spikes into Dean’s gut. It’s far too familiar, too much like the first time when Sam overdosed on pills and Dean thought they were both going to die. Fuck, he has no idea what to do, not a single clue as to how he’s supposed to handle this.

“Please, Sam, unlock the door and we’ll talk about this, okay? I’m not mad,” Dean lies, trying a different tactic. Maybe he can coax Sam out of the bathroom like a timid animal, lure him out and snare him before he can hurt himself further. God help him if he’s high on heroin, because Dean will gladly beat the drugs out of him with his fists and steel-toed boots.

“No,” Sam groans, shifting slightly.

“Come on,” Dean urges, standing back up and leaning against the door. “Don’t do this to me, man.”

“Just – just take me back, ‘kay? I can’t do this.”

“Can’t do what, Sammy?” Dean says, keeping his voice steady and slightly exaggerating the inflection at the end of his brother’s name. He feels like some kind of hostage negotiator, trying to talk the perpetrator out of whatever he’s planning. _Don’t put that bottle of whiskey to your head, Sam – don’t pull the trigger._

His brother vomits again, another wave of thick liquid hitting the bowl. Dean can smell it then, acrid and foul, too much like the way all their blankets smelled after several rounds in the wash before he threw them out. Cas is still staring at Dean with fearful doe eyes, shrugging his shoulders in return.

“Can’t…go home,” Sam slurs, his voice breaking over a mid-sentence hiccup, “take me back.”

“You need help, Sam,” Dean reminds him, desperately wishing he had some back-up. He’s terrible with words, never been a great motivator, never going to be that person who says something inspiring and beautiful. Bobby would know what to say, even Ellen or Jody could do a far better job than Dean can, and it scares the hell out of him that Sam’s life depends on his non-existent communication skills. “We can help you, remember? In Lawrence.”

The glass bottle drags over the tile, stuttering along the grooves until Sam finally lifts it up and presses the open top to his lips. Dean can’t actually see it, but he knows the distinct, oceanic sound from working at the Roadhouse, knows what it sounds like to hear someone suck their pain away straight from the bottle.

Dean rewinds his memory of their day on the road, analyzing every moment between the second they picked up Sam to now. How had Dean fucked this up so royally in such a short amount of time?

The soft sound of muscle flexing over golden liquid quiets, followed by a subtle gasp and hushed whimpers. Sam is crying again, or close to it. “No one can help me.”

Dean tries to ignore the pitfall swelling in his stomach. “Remember Bobby? He’s real smart, Sam. Real smart. He’ll know what to do, just like always. He misses you, too – can’t wait to see you again.”

It’s only half true, but more than worth the risk of lying. Bobby is probably one of the smartest men that Dean’s ever known, but he has no idea if Bobby actually wants to see Sam or help them out. Dean’s surrogate uncle helped raised Sam after they got back to Kansas and settled there, helped him with his homework when it got too advanced for Dean’s uneducated mind. He’s not cruel or vindictive, wouldn’t punish Sam for slipping into a life of addiction, but that doesn’t mean Bobby will greet him again with open arms.

“Fuck Bobby,” Sam says, his voice deepening, “an’ fuck you too.”

“Why?” Dean growls, losing his patience, “what the hell did I do? Bobby’s never done wrong by you, either.”

Sam drains the rest of the bottle into his mouth and down this throat. Dean can tell from the echoing tone it makes as his brother’s wet lips pop off the glass. Dean’s familiar with that noise, too. It’s a doleful, tragic sound, one that signals the loosening grip on that last frayed bit of rope.

Dean glances at Cas, then points toward his duffel where it sits on top of the small table. Cas crawls over the bed until his hands are unzipping the bag and pushing the faded canvas aside. Dean tries to mime something that looks like he’s picking a lock in the hopes that Cas has seen enough crime drama shows to know what to look for. Cas just stares back at him oddly for a moment, but his eyes brighten with recognition when Dean settles for spelling the word out with his hands.

“You don’t know what pain is,” Sam groans. He shifts around on the floor until he’s laying down, curled up on the tile and tucking his legs into his chest. Dean peers under the door, getting an eyeful of tangled dark hair and pale, yellowed skin. “You don’t know real pain.”

Something about that statement sets Dean’s teeth on edge, puts a punishing taste in his mouth like rusted iron. Sam is many things; he’s too smart for his own good, tall and broad shouldered like a Winchester should be, he can even be quick and witty on occasion – but blind? Cruel? Dean wouldn’t have even considered those adjectives before his brother left him for Stanford, but even then he couldn’t bring himself to slander Sam’s name.

But now, in the face of the accusation that Dean doesn’t know pain, that he’s never known _real_ pain, it takes all of his fragile self-control not to laugh or punch a hole through the flimsy wooden door. He doesn’t know pain? He doesn’t know what it’s like to hurt and suffer and long for death?

Sam is drunk, and that’s an indisputable fact. What Dean can’t seem to piece together is how serious Sam is despite the golden haze swirling around him and loosening his tongue. Dean had always heard that drunk words were sober thoughts, but sometimes he wonders if that’s true. He’s said many stupid things himself when drunk, things he didn’t mean and things he had never thought about before in his life, so that must be it. Sam must be drunk and temporarily stupid.

Because there’s no way that Sam can tell him that their father maintained an elaborate lie to convince Dean he was responsible for his own mother’s death, and tell him that he doesn’t know real pain in the next.

Perhaps Sam is so drunk that he can’t see how his addiction would be painful for Dean, too.

Dean has to take a deep drag of air to settle himself, wishing for a cigarette but pushing that thought aside so he can try and gain some control over this situation. Losing his cool won’t help anyone and certainly won’t help convince Sam that he needs to sober up and get help.

“What do you mean?” Dean asks, not actually interested in the answer. He hopes that if he keeps his brother talking, it will occupy Sam’s mouth enough that he won’t bother drinking anything else. The bottle is empty, but Dean has no way of knowing if that’s the only drink Sam had with him in there. He doesn’t even know where Sam got the alcohol in the first place.

Sam huffs a loud, indistinct noise, then makes a series of strange bubbling sounds with his slow, rubbery lips. 

Sam is downright _tanked_.

“Dad loved you more,” he says, sounding too much like he’s trying to talk around a gag in his mouth. “Everyone loves you more.”

It’s one of the most ridiculous things Dean has ever heard, especially after the enlightening conversation they had just yesterday. Obviously John loved Dean so much that he created an intricate make-believe world just for him, in which Dean was a murderer and Sam was an orphan in need of brotherly parenting. Fun times.

He hears _psssst_ coming from his right, so Dean glances over and sees Cas with the lock-pick in his hand. Dean holds his hands out as Cas tosses them in his direction, catching them out of the air as quietly as he can.

“You gonna come out of there, Sam?” Dean asks for a final time, fairly certain he knows what the answer is going to be.

There’s a long pause, some muffled sniffling and stirring on the floor, so Dean decides he’s done waiting and starts unlocking the door.

Before he can make any progress on it, he can hear Sam sitting up and the drag of the glass across the tile once again. Dean’s hands still as he presses his ear to the door, listening for any subtle sounds that help him figure out what Sam’s up to.

It’s completely quiet, nothing but the sound of Dean’s breathing to punctuate the silence. It scares him more than it should, but if Sam had fallen asleep then there would at least be the sound of his soft snoring, right?

Dean’s heart beats a little faster, then Sam’s voice breaks over two simple words. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Dean says, his jaw trembling more than he realized. Sam doesn’t answer the question, doesn’t acknowledge that Dean had said anything at all, he just follows his apology with a barely audible, “love you.”

Dean scrambles to unlock the door, because whatever is going on in there can’t possibly be good and that _love you_ sounded an awful lot like _goodbye_.

His stupid, shaking hands drop the lock-pick, so he reaches down to the get them and steals another glance under the door.

There’s…blood. A lot of blood. Oh God.

“What did you do?!” Dean yells, slamming a fist into the door.

Picking a lock is slow, careful work, but Dean’s picked enough in his lifetime to know the quickest method. He still has to be careful, has to keep his hands steady and focused, and even though he’s done this countless times and never met a room he couldn’t break into, panic sets in and he knows he’s pretty much fucked.

Dean tries his fucking hardest to pick the damn lock, raking over the internal pins and keeping a gentle pressure on the tension wrench, but his hands are shaking too much and his eyes are blurred with tears. He punches the door again in futile frustration, splintering the wood and leaving a faint impression of his knuckles.

“Cas!”

Cas is beside him in an instant, his lips parted in a combination of shock and fear as he stares at Dean, waiting for instruction. “I need you to do this for me, okay? Fuck, we gotta be quick, I think he cut himself.”

Cas nods, but it’s uncertain and cautious. “I’ve never done this before,” he admits, taking the rake and wrench from Dean’s hands. “We should call an ambulance.”

“No,” Dean snaps, refusing to even entertain the idea. It’s bad enough that Sam is drunk and obviously hurt himself, but what if they do other drug tests? What if his brother has a warrant out for his arrest after what happened to Ruby? He knows this is the kind of shit that goes on permanent records and it could ruin Sam’s chance of going back to school, of getting a respectable job.

None of which will happen if Sam dies, though.

“Put the wrench in the plug, put a little pressure on it, but not too much,” Dean instructs, showing Cas exactly what to do. It’s embarrassing how badly he’s shaking, how shallow his frantic breaths have become, but his brain can barely process anything other than _Sammy_ and _dying_. “Rake the pins, yeah, just like that.”

Cas does exactly as he’s told, expertly working the pins without breaking a sweat. He’s a natural under pressure, like one of those bomb squad guys staring at a tangle of wires, undeterred. When Cas makes quick work of the lock, turning the wrench and popping the door open, Dean is so relieved that he could tackle Cas to ground and kiss him until they can’t breathe.

But there’s only one person in the world who could compete with that desire, one person who Dean would put before anyone else, and that person is crumpled into a ball on the bathroom floor and bleeding out.

Dean pushes the door open and takes in everything there is to see in a matter of seconds: empty bottles, glass shards, droplets of vomit splattered around the toilet and the wall – and Sam, his sweet baby brother, pale and sweaty and crying.

To Dean’s relief, there’s not nearly as much blood as he thought. The blood merely spread in a thin layer over the tile, gathering in linear pools over the grout and already thickening. There’s a jagged, thin slice carved into Sam’s arm, high enough that it’s closer to his elbow than his wrist, a small mercy thanks to Sam’s drunken, sloppy state.

He’s going to be okay, thank Christ, but that brief moment of respite from this horrible situation is quickly overshadowed by the three empty bottles of liquor sitting in the bathtub and a fourth one broken into pieces in the sink.

“Did you – Sam, how much did you fucking drink?”

His brother groans and curls in tighter on himself, hiding his face from Dean’s determined glare. Dean looks back at the empty bottles, trying to calculate how much liquor it is altogether, how high his blood alcohol level must be. Sam is still able to talk, still able to feel some level of shame and embarrassment enough to cover his face, but there’s got to be a metric fuck-ton of whiskey in Sam’s veins right now. Is it even possible to drink that much and still be conscious? Still be alive?

Shit, is Sam some kind of heavy alcoholic, too?

“If your brother drank all of that,” Cas says, pointing to the empty bottles, “then we need to take him to a hospital.”

Before Dean can reply, the motel telephone rings.

“Fuck,” he mutters, scraping his fingers through his hair, “how much you wanna bet that’s management? We need to get out of here.”

Cas nods, giving Dean’s arm a gentle squeeze before stepping out of the bathroom. Cas lets the telephone ring without answering it and starts packing their things.

“Sam,” Dean says, squatting down beside his brother and tapping his shoulder, “you need to tell me how much you had to drink, okay? Did you drink all of these bottles?”

Sam wipes at the tears on his face in a clumsy fashion, far too drunk for his movements to be anything other than infantile. The cut on his arm has stopped bleeding for the most part, with only a few swelling, pregnant drops budding along the wound and dropping to the tile. Dean reaches for one of the white washcloths and presses it firmly over the cut, holding it in place with even pressure.

“No,” he mumbles, looking over at the only bottle on the floor. “Just one.”

“Then why – I mean, what’s with all the empty bottles?”

When the telephone starts ringing again, loud and shrill like some kind of warning count-down, Dean doesn’t wait in the bathroom for a reply. He steps over the pooling blood and goes back into the main part of the room to help Cas finish packing. Cas put on a pair of jeans and t-shirt, and most of their things are already in Dean’s duffel bag and Cas’ suitcase except for a clean pair of clothes laid out on the bed.

Dean grabs the jeans and pulls them on quickly, buttoning them with the nimble, deft fingers he wishes he had when trying to unlock the door. He’s not shaking anymore, the panic abated but was replaced by a sense of murky, weighty numbness. It’s better than the panic, but it still leaves him feeling weaker than he’d like.

There had been so much hope, so much happiness fluttering around in his chest when Sam agreed to come back. His brother had been sobbing, but he was still willing to go and the tears were dotted with occasional smiles and friendly chats with Cas. Dean let himself imagine all of the possibilities, let himself really believe that things would be okay and there’d be a happy ending to this nightmare of a life. He was going to have his brother again, they were going to work out their shit and talk and one day be best friends again. Sam makes him feel less alone, less misunderstood, because he’s the only other person in the world who shares the same childhood and memories as Dean. He should have known better than to let his daydreams get carried away, and now he’s paying the consequences.

More than that, Dean should have realized that heroin and pills might not have been Sam’s only addictions. He should have asked more questions, should have looked deeper into his brother’s easy acceptance of Dean’s return. If nothing else, he could have at least made sure one of them stayed awake so Sam wouldn’t escape or do something stupid.

“What are we going to do?” Cas asks, shoving the final items into a front zipper pocket. Dean doesn’t really know, he hasn’t exactly been thinking of a plan beyond getting the hell out of here, but he can’t help the twinge of pride he feels simply from Cas saying _we_. He knows Cas loves him, but sometimes it’s hard to remember that they’re in this together and Dean doesn’t have to struggle through it alone.

“No idea,” Dean admits, then, “we’ll figure it out once we’re on the road, I guess.”

Cas takes the hotel key card and all of their bags, leaving the room to bring their stuff to the car. All that’s left is an inebriated Sasquatch.

Dean’s not sure how he’s going to get his gigantic brother up and out of the motel room. He had to carry John around plenty, had to haul is ever-dwindling ass back to his bedroom countless times, but Sam is taller than their dad was and a lot heavier. He could probably carry him to the car with some effort, but the fact that Sam is bleeding and has blood all over his clothes would look pretty fucking suspicious, and the last thing he wants to do is draw attention.

Not that Dean has much choice.

He goes back into the bathroom and finds Sam deeply asleep and snoring. He grabs a towel and lays it over the majority of the blood, then lays a second towel on top. In the midst of his panic, Dean didn’t think about the fact that he was touching someone else’s blood, and while that doesn’t necessarily bother him, he doesn’t actually know if Sam’s blood is safe. With all the needles he’s probably used in the last year or two, it’s not impossible for his brother to have contracted something dangerous.

Dean leaves the washcloth on Sam’s wound, then squats down so he can hook his arms under Sam’s and lift him up. Christ, Sam is fucking heavy for a guy that used to eat nothing but rabbit food.

When he’s finally got his brother up, Sam is somewhat blinking and possibly a little bit awake. It’s hard to tell; he’s nodding around and bearing some weight on his feet, but his mouth is slack and his upper body is floppier than a damn noodle. Dean’s tempted to let go just to see what happens, but as funny as it would be to yell _timber!_ while watching his brother drop to the ground, they can’t afford to spare the extra minute. Management could be coming to their room any time now, could already be on their way, and Dean doesn’t want to be around when that happens.

Cas comes back and grabs Sam’s duffel, trying not to laugh at the way Sam is wobbling around on his feet. He holds open the door as Dean guides Sam through and out into the hallway.

By the time they get to the car, Dean’s exhausted. Sam is huge and heavy and limp, and Dean imagines he just did the equivalent of someone trying to walk around with a giant, slippery fish. Cas opens the back door and walks around to the side, crawling halfway in so he can help get Sam in the back without hurting him.

When Sam is finally laid down, Dean takes a moment to check him over once more, just in case there’s something he missed. He gently trails his fingers over Sam’s arms, through Sam’s hair and over the rough texture of his scalp. Everything seems to be okay, but Sam’s breathing is a bit slow and shallow. He’ll be haunted forever by the memory of Sam’s overdose, the way he gurgled like thick layers of foam were in his throat and he couldn’t breathe. The pitfall in Dean’s stomach swells again. He can’t bring himself to leave Sam in the backseat alone.

“Hey, Cas? Do you, uh, think you could do me a big favor?”

Cas’ eyes soften, his lips twitching up in a timid smile. “What do you need?”

“Can you sit in back with Sam? I’m just…I’m worried.”

Cas, the perpetual angel that he is, nods in understanding. Dean breathes a sigh of relief and pulls Cas in close, holding him tight long enough to center himself and calm down. He buries his nose in Cas’ neck and closes his eyes. Dean takes in the scent like a feral animal, desperately needing to be tethered back to earth before this situation gets any more out of hand.

For the briefest of moments, Dean allows himself to be weak. He lets himself lean into Cas, lets himself _need_ , and Cas responds with a warm, gentle kiss to Dean’s cheek. The world pauses mercifully, slowing and fading into the background, just long enough for Dean to pretend that it’s just him and the man he loves and nothing else matters.

Cas lets his fingers wander through Dean’s mussed up hair, trailing down until they’re pressed against his nape and pushing in with tender strength, almost like a deep tissue massage but unmoving. It’s perfect, just what Dean needed: a simple, physical reminder that he’s not losing his mind or drifting away from reality. No matter what happens, Cas won’t leave him to fend for himself. He’s real and here and not alone.

Dean tilts his head up, dragging his lips and nose softly across Cas’ stubbled skin until he finds that perfect mouth. He presses a cushy kiss to Cas’ lips, short but sweet, then gives him a thankful smile.

“It’s going to be okay, Dean,” Cas promises, that same endearing, lopsided smile blooming across his face.

“You’ve been saying that a lot. I’m starting to think you don’t know what that means,” Dean jokes, keeping an eye on the car and making sure Sam is still inside of it. “This isn’t exactly my definition of okay.”

Cas’ hold on Dean’s nape loosens, but the reassuring smile on his face stays the same. “Sam is here, with us. He’s alive and that’s already much better than we expected, isn’t it? We’ll be home soon and then it won’t just be us having to do this. We’ll have help.”

“I just don’t get it, Cas. He seemed…Sam was good yesterday, right? I don’t know what happened.”

Cas tilts his head, his soft expression melting into something more somber. “Dean, he’s an addict.”

As if that one word can encompass everything, can explain all of the parts and pieces that compose the sum. He supposes it does, though. Sam is an addict, he can’t yet exist without the drug he desperately needs, can’t function or think normally without the craving seeping out and blinding him. Dean thought he knew all there was to know about it after a lifetime watching John, but now he realizes there’s so much more to it than he ever saw, ever thought possible.

“Yeah,” Dean agrees, not sure what else to say, “I’m not stopping until we get home. I can’t do this again.”

Cas’ eyes narrow as his brows knit together, concern washing over his face. “We are only in Wendover,” he says, doing some internal calculations in his mind, “Lawrence is seventeen hours away, and you’ve barely slept.”

“I’ve done worse,” Dean says, not backing down, “but if you’re that concerned about it, just take a nap and maybe later we can switch off. I’m not stopping any longer than it takes to piss or grab some food.”

Dean can tell Cas is unhappy about it, but this isn’t something that’s up for negotiation. He’s not afraid to admit that he’s way too scared to try and get a motel room again, unable to handle anything like what Sam just pulled a second time.

Cas doesn’t argue, he just glides his thumb along the jut of Dean’s jaw and gives his temple a quick peck before heading to the Impala. He gets into the back, laughing to himself about the complete lack of space with Sam curled up back there. He settles on sitting with Sam’s head in his lap, just so he can be right there to hear or see anything that might happen.

Dean gets behind the wheel and rubs the sleep from his eyes, takes a deep breath, and starts his Baby up.

☼ ☼ ☼ 

It’s a full ten hours later before Sam wakes up.

Dean is still behind the wheel with his lead foot on the pedal, tipping another gulp of gas station coffee into his mouth. He’s exhausted, but they’ve made really good time and Lawrence is only a couple hours away. He can’t believe how close they are, can’t believe this is actually happening, but when he hears Sam start to stir and shift around, that excitement mutes and starts to slink away.

Consciousness doesn’t appear to pull Sam out of sleep evenly. He gasps, still half asleep, blinking and squinting and curling his toes. It’s kind of cute that no matter how huge his brother got, he can still see the little boy he raised in Sam’s features.

Sam yawns, finally leaving sleep behind and opening his eyes. He’s drowsy and a little dizzy, blearily gazing up at Cas in confusion. “Hi?”

Cas laughs, looking down at Sam with a humored expression. “Hello, Sam. How are you feeling?”

Sam sits up then and wipes at his face, wincing when he realizes his arm hurts. He looks out the window and squints, still confused, and takes a moment to let his brain catch up and get with the program. “I’m cold.”

Dean scoffs at that. It’s probably eighty degrees outside and he’s got the window cracked a bit to let some natural air in, and the AC is on to keep them all from sweating. He looks back at Sam for just a second, not wanting to tear his eyes away from the road, and sees his brother’s pale skin pebbled and dry. It contradicts Sam’s hairline, damp with sweat and sticking to his forehead.

“You wanna tell me what the hell that stunt was in the motel?” Dean asks, too pissed to give Sam a break or wait for him to fully wake up. Cas reaches for a blanket on the floorboard and hands it over to Sam, who wraps it tightly around himself to keep from shivering.

For a moment, Sam looks ashamed. He hangs his head and acts like a kicked kitten, leaning against the door and pulling the small blanket up a little higher around his shoulders. “Withdrawals,” he says, leaving it at that.

“You thought the alcohol would help,” Cas states, not really a question but guessing at Sam’s motives. Though Dean is driving and keeping his focus where it should be, he steals the occasional glance back in the rearview mirror. It’s strange to see Cas looking at Sam with a quiet fondness, especially after what happened in the motel room. He makes a mental note to ask Cas about that later, about why he never seems to be upset with Sam the way Dean and everyone else is. It’s probably because he doesn’t really _know_ Sam, isn’t emotionally invested, and he finds himself feeling a pinch of jealousy about that too.

Dean wishes he knew how to separate himself from the pain and disappointment, how to cope better with the way Sam makes him feel, so that being around him didn’t feel so foreign and awkward.

Sam nods in response, still shivering despite the heat and the blanket. Dean turns off the AC to make it a little easier for his brother, even though he doesn’t know that much about withdrawals. It’ll get hot as hell in the Impala pretty quickly, and he’ll keep the AC at a minimum so he’s not blinded by his own sweat, but he can’t watch Sammy suffer anymore. He just can’t.

“What is it like?” Cas asks gently, acting like the curious professor that he is.

Sam thinks about it for a minute. His leg starts bouncing up and down in quick succession, a nervous habit he used to do all the time before he left. It tugs on something in Dean’s chest, reminding him that _his_ Sam is still somewhere inside that gargantuan shell after all.

“It’s like…having a flu or something, but a million times worse. One minute you’re so hot that you think you could be on fire, then suddenly you’re freezing. You throw up, you shit yourself, you feel like you’re dying. Everything hurts, man.”

Dean can hear Cas shifting around, but they’re going through Kansas and he has to keep an eye out for wild game so he can’t look back to see what Cas is doing.

“You seem to be doing remarkably well, Sam,” Cas comments, a hint of pride in his voice.

Sam snorts in disbelief, and yeah, Dean has to agree with his brother’s response. He’d huff about it too if Cas could actually see his face, because it’s such a bullshit thing to say. Sam’s doing well? Was he even paying attention to what happened in the motel room?

“I, uh…” Sam starts, pausing to shiver again. Dean can almost hear the clattering of his teeth as his brother shakes, fighting off the imaginary chill that envelopes him. “I’ll pay you back, I promise.”

“Me?” Cas confirms, his eyebrows jumping up into his hairline, “for what?”

Sam fumbles around in his pockets, trying to keep the blanket up around him while he fishes out a slim platinum credit card, pinching it between two fingers as he hands it over to Cas. “Sorry.”

Dean slams on the brakes, nearly sending an unbuckled Sam into the seat in front of him.

It’s one thing for his brother to be an addict, to poison himself with drugs and alcohol and weak, drunken attempts at suicide. It’s one thing for Sam to be a heavy burden on his family, to be the extra weight on Dean’s back that he has to carry through to the end of the race so they can both cross the finish line. It’s something completely different to steal, to take money from someone who selflessly offered their time and patience to a cause that has nothing to do with them.

Sam stole from Cas, went through his wallet and his suitcase until he found what he wanted and wasted that money on alcohol – four or five bottles of whiskey that Sam didn’t even drink, for chrissakes. Sam, the little brother who refused to eat the makeshift birthday cake because it was made from stolen goods, the boy who wouldn’t even let Dean shoplift some much needed school clothes because it was _wrong, Dean, you shouldn’t steal_. Sam, mister goody-fucking-two-shoes, actually took a credit card from an innocent party and spent Cas’ money on something he didn’t even need to survive.

Fuck, nothing about this is right. Sam was the same, upright citizen for his entire life, who fought against John every single time he suspected something illegal, who yelled at Dean for flirting his way into a motel room discount. How did two years away at Stanford completely change his little brother into this unrecognizable asshole? What happened to the little boy who earned his good grades and made Dean promise not to steal?

“You took Cas’ credit card?” Dean snaps, turning so he’s looking over the seat at Sam. “You’re a fucking thief now, too?”

Dean doesn’t wait for Sam to answer. He hits the gas and takes off, more determined than ever to get back to Lawrence so they can start the process of getting Sam better. He’s so disgusted, so irrefutably betrayed that he can barely think straight.

It hits him then with a rush of sudden, sickening understanding: Sam isn’t _Sam_ anymore. He never will be, never again, not after this. It has nothing to do with whether or not people can change, nothing to do with time or school or growing older. Heroin crept into his brother’s life, dripped into his veins and slowly took him over, infiltrating his body from the inside out until it reigned supreme. Sam can quit the drug, can sober up and become a goddamn priest, but the heroin will always slither along his insides, thirsty for more.

It will always be there, wanting, hungry, influencing his thoughts and desires until it serves the heroin’s higher purpose. Sam will always take second place to those basal, insatiable desires.

After all, that’s why addicts are in recovery their entire lives. They’re never cured, never _better_ , just conquerors of every day they successfully make it through without slipping down the face of the mountain. There’s no real victory for them: they never actually make it to the top.

Dean bites back the tears that spring to his tired, bloodshot eyes. He wanted his brother back so badly, wanted to things to go back to the way they were before he abandoned them and left Dean alone to care for their father. All of the excitement - the dreams and the hopes and the wants – they’re pointless now, useless, better left to rot than to hold on to and further the pain.

Worse is the knowledge that Sam may never have a relationship with his nephew, with Dean’s son. That thought hurts more than the rest, burns deeper and sharper than anything else in this whole fucked up mess. Sammy would have made such a great uncle, would have been the best damn influence on that little boy. Dean could have spent the years watching his brother and his son become best friends, could have watched Sam help his boy with homework and girl problems and sports. Gone are the dreams of Boys’ Night Out, of him and Sam and Little Man watching Harrison movies and playing shoot-em-up games. Gone are the hopes of his son having the big, _real_ loving family that Dean always wishes he had.

Sam may get sober, may stay that way for many years and learn how to cope without drugging his body into submission, but he’ll never be the same. He’ll never go back to the way he was.

Cas takes the card with a smile and the shrug of his shoulders, telling Sam that it’s fine and he understands.

Sam gives him a weak, appreciative grin in return.

It’s all so wrong and so fucked up that Dean can only bite the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood. Better to keep his mouth closed and appear to be in control, than to open his mouth and remove all doubt.

Something like that, anyway. He’s pretty sure there’s a quote out there about that.

“So, uh…you and Dean, huh?” Sam says, completely ignoring Dean’s little outburst and subsequent pouting. It makes sense though, he supposes. There’s not much Sam can say in his defense.

“Yes,” Cas grins, almost Cheshire-like, “about six months now, give or take.”

“Wow,” Sam breathes, huffing a small laugh, “I think that’s the longest relationship Dean’s ever had. Kudos.”

It’s not. Dean is tempted to correct him, tempted to tell him all about Lisa and the long relationship he had right after Sam left, but it would be pointless. Besides, he’s too pissed off to speak, too heartbroken to contribute to their conversation.

“Actually, Dean was with someone else for about a year. You’ll get to meet her, though, when we get back to Lawrence,” Cas explains, and Dean feels a little bit outed. He doesn’t care whether or not Sam knows about Lisa, but Lisa’s currently a package deal and the bit about Dean becoming a father is somewhat personal. A part of him doesn’t even want Sam to know until he’s sober, doesn’t want Sam involved at all until he’s clean and healthy. The boy’s not even born yet and Dean’s already feeling protective.

It’s also a little weird that Sam hasn’t mentioned anything about Dean’s sexuality. Yeah, Sam always was a bit progressive, but it seems unnatural for a little brother not to give his big brother shit about being gay.

Or bisexual. Whatever.

“How’d you guys meet?”

Cas chuckles, and it softens Dean’s violent, solid brick exterior for the moment. “We met at the Roadhouse,” he says, and it almost makes Dean laugh himself. Yeah, the Roadhouse. He remembers the first time he saw Castiel, solid and stoic and fierce, good Samaritan to the rescue. It was so embarrassing at the time, so awkward and humiliating, but he can’t imagine what his life would be like if Cas hadn’t of intervened. Bless him and those virtuous, righteous sapphire eyes.

“Heh, yeah, that sounds like Dean,” Sam jokes, kicking off the blanket and fanning himself. The pebbled skin is gone, replaced by darkened, sweaty flesh that Sam blows on in an effort to keep cool. Dean cranks up the AC, furious but still unable to deny his brother a basic comfort during his time of need.

Out of nowhere, Sam starts crying. Dean has no idea what started it, no idea what made his little brother suddenly emotional. He suspects it’s the withdrawals, that Sam is simply unable to contain his emotion, crumbling into a bawling mess at the slightest whim.

“I can’t do this,” Sam says again, tears trailing down his cheeks and over his slender, wide lips. “Just a little bit, okay? Please, just enough to function. Just so I can make it to rehab. Please.”

Dean aches for his brother, he really does. He knows what it’s like to need something so desperately he would die from it, he knows what it’s like to believe it’s the end of the world and nothing else will bring that smidgeon of respite. They’re so close to Lawrence that Dean can taste it, can taste the faint metallic pallor of victory, but it’s nearly impossible to feel victorious when Sam is crying.

“Guess what?” Cas says, out of character. He’s not one to play guessing games, not one to pander to people’s reckless emotions, so it throws Dean a little off-center. “You’re going to be an uncle. Did you know that? Your brother is having a baby, and I bet that little boy would be so blessed to have you as an uncle.”

Dean doesn’t always credit Cas when he does something fucking amazing, but he never realized that Sam being an uncle could actually serve as a concrete reason for staying sober. Sam smiles, just a small, hopeful one with a thin layer of doubt and fear. A part of him wants to be mad at Cas for telling his druggie brother about the baby on the way, but a larger part of him is thankful for him giving Sam a reason to push through the hard times.

“What?” Sam asks, one brow lifting in confusion and disbelief. “How?”

“The other person Dean was with, before I met him,” Cas clarifies, his face completely relaxed and natural, “her name is Lisa, and she’s pregnant with Dean’s child. It’s a long story, but it can wait for when we get back to Lawrence. She’s due this month, actually. It’s a boy.”

“Wow,” Sam replies, his face genuinely impressed. He’s still obviously confused, but Dean doesn’t feel like explaining the specifics to him just yet. It’s a long, complicated story, one Sam will have to earn with sobriety.

“Hey,” Sam says then, looking at the floorboards and reaching for something, “is this my book?” He holds up Night, the novel Dean stole from Sam’s bedroom.

Dean really didn’t want to talk again, too angry, not until they made it to Lawrence again, but he has to say something. “Uh, yeah,” he says, not looking at Sam or the book. He still doesn’t understand why he took it, why he attempted to read it, but his face flushes red at being caught. He just yelled at Sam for stealing, felt deep fury and resentment over something Dean’s guilty of himself.

Sam looks it over for second, flipping through the pages with a sad, grave look on his face. His fingers trace over the lettering on the cover in a way that seems far too sensual, but then again Sam always did have love affairs with his books. “Did you get to the end?”

No, he didn’t. He’s barely made it halfway through and he’s getting really fucking tired of people asking him that question. Is there something magical about the ending? Something mind blowing and life changing? Or do people really not expect Dean to finish the things he starts?

“Not yet,” Dean mumbles, reluctant to answer. At least that answer comes with the promise that Dean intends to finish the book, intends to follow through on his mission to read a novel all the way through, once and for all.

Sam just nods, his expression not giving anything away. He eyes the book affectionately, almost lovingly, opening it up to somewhere in the middle and reading it, leaning back against the seat.

Dean wants to let it go, wants to focus solely on getting back to Lawrence, but that unappeasable cricket chirps in his chest once again and demands answers, demands peace of mind.

“What was with all the whiskey, Sammy?” Dean asks, his voice even and calm. He’s not trying to pin his brother against a wall, doesn’t want him to feel cornered or accused, but Dean just has to know. It was almost his worst nightmare incarnate, all the things he ever feared about his brother coming true at once, and he needs to know what Sam was thinking before he can move on. He needs to know the thoughts going through his brother’s head so he can avoid the same thing happening twice.

Sam sniffs, though Dean was pretty sure his brother had stopped crying. “I thought I was doing the right thing,” he says, quietly, morose, “I felt the symptoms. I knew I was going to start freaking out. I didn’t want you to see that. I didn’t…God, Dean, I didn’t want you to see me like that,” Sam begins to tear up, holding his palm over his mouth like it can stifle the weak, whimpering cries. “I thought if I was drunk, if I had something to drink, the chills and the sweats wouldn’t be so bad, you know? I thought it would help me sleep or something. I didn’t…I didn’t want you to worry. I’ve done all wrong, Dean. I wanted you to think I was better.”

Sam dissolves into tears once again, hiding his face behind his oversized hand. Cas reaches over and offers a gentle backrub, trying to reassure Sam that everything is going to be okay.

Dean knows it’s not. Dean knows how bleak and problematic Sam’s future is going to be. He watched John struggle his entire life, watched the way addiction slowly erodes a person down into practically nothing. Heroin isn’t a joke, it’s nothing like alcohol or pot or the other things he’s seen people try to quit. Sam’s road to recovery will be long, strenuous, and grim.

He believes his brother, though. Despite his worst fears that Sam could be manipulating him even now, that Sam could be lying for the sake of self-preservation, he can see it. Dean can see Sam rifling through Cas’ things, desperate and afraid and shaking, searching for a quick solution to his problems. He can see Sam shivering and sweating, sick and pale, worried that Dean would wake up and tell him to _suck it up, buttercup_. It’s nothing Dean’s not guilty of himself.

It’s with that morbid thought in the back of his mind that Dean hits the gas, disregarding the signs and the law, determined to get back home to save his little brother from himself.


	31. Chapter 31

Dean’s boot sinks in to the muddy earth. Patters of rain fall in bundles over the shoulders of his leather jacket, and his fingers slide easily over the cold metal of his Baby’s door as he closes it gently behind him. He can smell Bobby’s famous barbeque from outside – tangy and sweet with molasses, thick and perfect – and all Dean can think is that it’s the scent of victory.

They made it. They actually fucking made it.

He’s dead on his feet, barely able to keep himself upright and conscious, but the soft yellow light coming from Bobby’s windows call to him like quiet sirens. They promise him warmth and food and soft pillows, a respite from the road and Sammy’s endless pleas for mercy.

The road trip is over. Sam, despite his prayers not to be, is finally home.

Dean takes a moment to relish the smell of rain-soaked Kansas soil, carrying with it the lingering fumes from his overworked Impala and the raw fragrance of nearby farmland. He could live to be a thousand years old and never tire of it, never wish for anything else.

Jody’s wind chimes clatter and sing from the porch, guiding Dean to the door with Cas and Sam close on his heels. Laughter rings loudly from inside, followed by the thudding of excited footsteps growing closer. Cas had the forethought to call ahead to let them know when they’d be back, so when the door swings open and Charlie leaps into Dean’s aching arms, he sends God a quick _thank you_ for bringing Cas into his life.

Charlie wraps her legs around Dean’s waist and kisses his cheek with an excited squeal, and for a brief moment he feels like a soldier returning home from war. The battle he fought was hard-won, devastating in so many ways that it was nearly a pyrrhic victory, but here in the arms of his best friend with his family waiting eagerly inside, he knows it was worth it.

Cas guides Sam inside, and though Dean’s little brother is weak and unwell, he handles the swarm of hugs and tight embraces with reluctant ease. Sam is rigid and fearful, unsure of how to handle the unexpected affection, but it’s not until Bobby actually kisses the kid on the cheek that Sam begins to cry.

Bobby, who has never kissed a soul beyond his wife, who’d rather slap a few backs and roll his eyes than expose the soft teddy bear inside, broke through the thick concrete of Sam’s defenses and readily welcomed him home.

“Damn idjit,” he mutters, wiping a stray tear that made its way down to Bobby’s graying beard. Sam huffs a weak laugh, then holds an unsteady hand over his mouth to keep the nausea from overcoming him.

Dean tries to let Charlie go, but she’s clinging to him so tightly that even without his arms for support, she’s managing to stay up just fine. Dean is so tired and wearied, so depleted from Sam’s withdrawals and the utter lack of sleep that even the carpet is starting to look like a good place to rest. He kicks off his boots with some effort, using the wall for support because Charlie refuses to let go, and drags them both over to the couch.

He watches his family celebrate Sam’s return, lets the image settle warmly in his gut like hot cocoa as he lays his head back against the couch. Ellen and Jo are here too, though Jo seems to be the only person who’s not throwing herself in Sam’s direction. She’s sitting patiently at the dining table, eyeing Dean and Charlie with muted disapproval and the occasional glance at Cas.

Cas is off to the side, speaking quietly with Jody about something that doesn’t seem to be good news. Jody looks worried, maybe a little sad and tense, and whatever she’s saying to Cas isn’t being received all that well, either. Dean watches the interaction carefully, attempting to decipher the despondent body language that has them both shaking their heads. Dean would care more if he weren’t so drained, but it’s hard enough at the moment just keeping his eyelids from drooping, so he doesn’t give it much thought. They’re probably discussing what happened with Sam at the motel room.

Though Bobby’s house is crowded with everyone in their tight familial circle, Dean gets the sense that something is missing. Sam is here, adding to that overall number and handling the spotlight better than Dean expected, but he can’t shake the feeling that someone isn’t here who should be.

His brain is slow to catch up, but eventually the vague images of babies and pregnancy wave through his mind and remind him that Lisa isn’t here. It’s late in the evening, though, and she wasn’t exactly thrilled at the prospect of Sam returning, so she’s probably downstairs in her room avoiding the buzz. They weren’t on good terms when Dean left, their violent altercation still fresh in his mind, and he forgot to call her to see how she was doing while he was gone. Lisa might not be ready yet to talk about it, either.

“I missed you,” Charlie says, shifting her weight slightly so they’re more comfortable on the couch.

“I noticed,” Dean smiles. He rubs a lazy hand over her back, soaking in her body heat like a thermal blanket. “You can get off me any time, you know.”

Charlie doesn’t laugh, not even a little courtesy chuckle as his lame joke. “I know, but I’m not going to. Not yet.”

The tone of her voice sends a slight spark of warning through his nerves, but he’s not sure why. She sounds protective, yet also timid somehow in a way that clashes with Charlie’s loud, confident personality. He notices then that everyone keeps glancing his way, too. It didn’t bother him before, he barely even realized it was happening, but there’s something uneasy about the set of their features that feels off.

Dean knows he’s a work in progress, knows he’s had his share of outbursts and vicious reactions when he can’t handle the bubbling anger that dwells inside of him. He knows that this road trip and having Sam back is making everyone emotional and tense, that they’re all treading over thin ice just above a volatile current. Dean, aware of his multitude of faults, figures they’re all expecting him to explode in one way or another. Are they afraid of him right now? That’s the strange, unwelcome sense that he’s getting. Even Charlie’s adamant embrace is starting to feel less like a hug and more like a sacrificial soldier throwing herself over a grenade to keep the others safe.

He looks to Cas again, who’s still standing and talking with Jody about something serious. Cas turns and spares a peek at Dean. Even Cas looks afraid of something, like he’s dreading some impending apocalypse, and it hurts.

Cas should know that Dean’s not going to do anything stupid or crazy. Everything Dean has worked so hard for has finally paid off: Sam is alive and safe, home now where he’ll have support and love and patience while he sobers up. His entire family is gathered at Bobby’s like it’s Christmas and delicious barbeque is waiting for them on the dining table. What does everyone think Dean’s going to do?

Maybe they just feel sorry for him. Maybe they are looks of pity rather than fear, sad for the brother that endured so much to save the other. Dean is so tired that his brain might not be working right, his eyes staying closed longer and longer every time he attempts a blink. When he opens his eyes again, Cas is sitting beside him and running loving fingers through his hair. There’s a smile on his face now, small but genuine, so Dean lets himself believe it was all in his head.

“You hungry?” Cas asks, lightly scratching Dean’s scalp in that spoiled way he loves most.

He nods in response, but his eyes close again and his surroundings start to blur into the background. Even though he can’t see them, everyone in the room takes on a surreal quality as Dean slips into sleep mode. “Too tired.”

“You should sleep,” Cas says, kissing Dean’s temple. He pats Charlie’s shoulder before rising from the couch and joining the others at the table. Dean’s last blip of consciousness is the abstract thought that most people would find his and Charlie’s position inappropriate, and if it weren’t for their mutual, blatant homosexuality, it probably would be.

Yeah, Dean just called himself gay and he doesn’t even care. Cas is the only person he can see himself with for the rest of his life. Cas is it for him, and if for some reason they don’t last, Dean’s done. No one else would ever compare, so there’d be no point. If that makes him gay, then so be it.

҉      ҉      ҉

Dean wakes, his eyelids warm from the strip of sunlight stretched across his face. He feels surprisingly refreshed: no headache, no annoyingly blurred vision or foggy thoughts. His body is a little sore, but that’s to be expected. He didn’t sleep for two days and had to haul his mammoth brother around, then had a red-headed spider monkey jump into his arms and refuse to let go. Dean’s a big guy himself, but he’s not some unsinkable ship. He needed to rest.

Charlie’s gone. He’s spread out on the couch, still fully dressed but feeling pretty good. He wipes at his eyes for a moment, a habit despite the lack of need, then looks around the room. Dean guesses it’s late morning based on the generous sunlight pouring in through in the windows and the strong, welcome odor of brewing coffee coming from the kitchen. Cas is curled up on the floor beside the couch, changed into pajamas with a pillow and one of Jody’s quilts.

 _Idiot_ , Dean thinks. There was plenty of room on the couch, and he definitely wouldn’t have minded waking up with a gorgeous man on top of him. Cas didn’t have to sleep on the floor, and it couldn’t have been that comfortable. He could have even gone home if he wanted to, but he chose discomfort over distance and Dean would be lying if he said that didn’t make him feel all fuzzy inside.

Dean strips off his jacket and jeans. It feels a little backwards to wake up and take clothes off rather than put them on, but he figures he deserves a day off and there’s no way he’s going to relax with a cup of coffee if he’s wearing a thick layer of leather.

He steps over Cas with careful feet, then moseys into the kitchen. The promise of hot coffee is too compelling to ignore despite Bobby’s lack of brewing skills, but the smell of it is so rich and smooth that he suspects Jody is the one who made it. Dean’s a little surprised to see Bobby and Charlie at the table, sipping coffee from their mugs and whispering like a couple of conspirators. They hush when Dean enters, and he remembers faintly what happened the last time he was in this exact situation. Those two only ever seem to discuss Dean’s affairs behind his back, and it’s starting to get really annoying.

“Morning,” he says, ignoring their suspicious behavior for the moment. It’s too damn early for whatever nonsense they’re scheming up.

Dean grabs a mug from the cupboard and pours some coffee, then debates with himself about whether or not to add creamer. He settles on the hazelnut creamer instead of the zero calorie sweetener crap. At least the creamer has real sugar.

“Did you sleep okay?” Charlie asks, her tone nervous and subdued.

“Yeah, actually. I feel pretty good.” Dean decides to ignore the tone of her voice as well, because he knows from experience that nothing good will come of it. He wonders if they’re going to change their minds about helping Sam, or if they’re going to try and pressure him into doing something he doesn’t want to, like get counseling or go to rehab along with his brother. He takes comfort in knowing they can’t actually force him, but his heart sinks at the possibility of disappointing them.

But really, Dean would far prefer they nag him about something rather than give up on Sam. Dean can’t be everywhere at once, can’t put on a cape and call himself Superman and expect it to be true. He needs all the help he can get.

He joins them at the table, stretching a bit after he sits. They both look so uncomfortable that it’s really starting to freak him out.

“So,” he says, awkwardly, trying to break up the intolerable silence, “Sam’s home.”

Bobby smiles at that and nods, looking thankful, “You’ve done real good, Dean. We’re gonna get him squared away and get him back on his feet.”

“Yeah?” Dean perks up with renewed excitement, the fear of them bailing on the Sam Project slipping away.

“Of course, you idiot. Bobby even talked to his friend Rufus at DCCCA. Sam’s considered high risk, so they’re getting him into the rehab program right away,” Charlie explains, her eyes lighting up and relaxing, “we got it covered, okay?”

Dean sighs, feeling a mixture of relief and gratitude and fear. He’s overwhelmed by the obstacles that lay ahead, by the growing list of things that could go wrong, and there’s so much that he never even realized he had to be prepared for. His brain had been so dead set on getting Sam home that he barely spared a thought on what would actually happen once they got here.

He knew he’d be sending Sam to rehab, but it was still more of an abstract, hopeful thought than anything else. Dean had browsed around for rehab facilities years ago, back when he thought his father might actually agree to it, but the tentative plan was squashed well before it ever took flight. He remembers looking at the DCCCA center in Wichita, but there was no way they could have afforded it when it was over $7,500 a month for treatment. John was just an alcoholic, he didn’t necessarily need that kind of full time, isolating help, but Sam’s addicted to heroin and he’ll need to be under constant surveillance, at least for a while.

Dean would do it, he’d stay at home and watch his brother and go without sleep if he had to, but he can’t afford to quit his job and he has absolutely no training in how to deal with an opiate addict. He dealt with John the best he knew how, kept him going for as long as he could, but now Dean realizes that everything he had done for his father wasn’t helping. He had been enabling his father, letting John drink and mope without worrying about the consequences because he knew Dean would be there to clean up the mess.

He can’t enable Sam, can’t let him get away with slowly killing himself like he did with their dad. Dean doesn’t know how to wrestle those two different demons, doesn’t know how to make his brother suffer through sobriety when all Dean wants to do is take away his brother’s pain and keep him close to home.

“I can’t afford that place, Bobby. Sam needs more than a few group therapy sessions a week, you know? That place is like, more than two-hundred bucks a day for that inpatient stuff, and I blew all my savings on these damn road trips. And don’t you dare ask Cas for any of his money, got it? Sam’s not his responsibility. He’s mine.”

Bobby just looks at him with a grave, unimpressed face. It’s hard to read Bobby sometimes, hard to decipher the subtle looks and differentiate between what an eye twitch means or even the lift of an eyebrow. Dean’s learned some of the differences, but the particular look he’s reading on Bobby’s face now is almost too hard to read. He looks sad, angry, impatient…some kind of combination of every unpleasant feeling he can think of.

“You tellin’ me Sam ain’t my family?” Bobby asks, eyes narrowed. He’s clearly not impressed with Dean’s attempt at full obligation. 

He can’t tell Bobby that Sam isn’t his family, that Sam isn’t anyone’s business other than Dean’s. It goes so far beyond the fact that Bobby has been supportive and helpful, so far beyond him putting together a family gathering for Sam’s return. Bobby has been the longest constant in Dean’s life, has practically raised them both despite their distant lives on the road. If Dean could have somehow gone back in time and picked any parent he wanted, he would have picked Bobby, plain and simple. Dean doesn’t have any right to lecture him about blood and responsibility.

“You know that’s not what I’m saying. I just don’t want you guys going broke over a mistake Sam made. Sam…” _doesn’t deserve that_ , Dean wants to say. And Bobby doesn’t deserve to spend his savings on some wayward brat who wanted to get high instead of making the most out of his scholarship.

“Sam may as well be my flesh and blood, and you’ll never convince me otherwise. Same goes for you, Dean. I’d sell my own soul to make sure you’re okay. But if you’d have let me finish, you’d know that Rufus was able to pull some strings and get Sam a grant from the state of Kansas.  Apparently low income people are entitled to a little government help when they need to get sober.”

Dean doesn’t even know what to say. It can’t be possible that money will come from practically nowhere, for free, to get Sam the help that he desperately needs. He’s never accepted government money, not once. He’s never used food stamps or state medical, never taken food from a food bank or accepted money that he didn’t earn himself. It rubs him the wrong way, makes him feel weak and helpless, but he’s willing to make an exception for Sam. He’s willing to let the government pay to help his little brother get back on his feet, even if the money doesn’t feel deserved.

“Easy as that? Kansas will pay for everything?” It seems too good to be true, and despite the coffee that’s making him more alert, Dean still can’t believe it.

Charlie jumps in then, tired of being silent for so long, “Not all of it, but close enough. They’ll pay up to six grand a month, the rest is on us. Still, that’s a huge discount. Sam will get the best treatment for only fifteen hundred bucks a month. That’s reason to celebrate, right?

Dean doesn’t make a lot, not enough to pay for that much and still get all of his bills paid, but it’s doable. He can work overtime and get his job back at the Roadhouse, he can flirt his ass off and wink at as many girls as it takes to get Sam’s treatment covered. He’ll do whatever it takes so no one else has to suffer because of his brother’s mistakes.

“I know what you’re thinking, Dean. I can see it written all over your face. Don’t get any brilliant ideas, alright? I’m paying for the extra, and that’s that,” Bobby insists, gulping down the last of his coffee, “Jody and I can afford it and I don’t want to hear any complaints. That clear?”

No, not really.

A part of Dean feels bitter, feels resentful. Where was all this generosity when Dean was struggling alone with John? Where was this giant support network when his father was still alive?

John may have been a lost cause, though. Dean may have been the only one who didn’t see it, who didn’t realize the futility of his efforts. Sam is still savable, still has a long life ahead of him with the potential for happiness and success. John never really had that, never had the promise of something more than being alone and miserable.

“You don’t have to do that, Bobby. I know you guys have been saving up for a long time, and I don’t think I can do that to you.” Dean feels humbled, almost ashamed. He doesn’t know if he can accept such a generous offer.

“Good thing  you ain’t doin’ it then, right? This is me and Jody’s decision, and our decision is final. You’ve done all the legwork, Dean. You raised Sam on your own and got him home after all this time in one piece. It’s time for you to rest. If anyone deserves a break in all this, it’s you. You hear me? I ain’t arguing with you about this. Just accept it for what it is, and shut up.”

Dean shuts up, even if he doesn’t necessarily agree with it. He has to bite back the urge to argue, the urge to cry or scream or fight against the offer that almost feels unnatural. He’s not used to accepting help, not used to being anything other than the single piece of adhesive that kept his family together.

But Bobby just keeps looking at him with insistence, with determination, the certain set of his features that screams dominance and superiority. Dean can’t argue. He wants to, but he can’t. Sam’s health is more important than his pride, after all. If he focuses enough, if he learns how to suck it all up like he has with pretty much everything else, he can do this. He can accept what Bobby is offering.

“Okay,” Dean says, resigning, more grateful than he’s willing to let on, “So what’s Sam going to do when he gets out of inpatient? Where’s he going to stay until rehab actually starts?”

Bobby and Charlie exchange a quick, tired glace. Charlie unwraps her fingers from around her mug and laces them in her lap, her eyes softening and widening at the same time. Bobby seems anxious now, chewing on the inside of his cheek and huffing a long, weary breath.

Maybe this was the problem. Maybe they were arguing over who had to bear the burden of Sam’s presence in their home. Dean has no problem keeping Sam at his place, no issue with keeping a close eye on his brother where he knows he’s safe and sober. At least in this, Dean can provide some relief.

“Sam’s gonna stay here in our guest room until rehab starts. He’s welcome to stay here after inpatient, too. He’ll have his second step with counseling and group therapy here in Lawrence anyway,” Bobby assures, that hesitant, scared tone returning to his voice.

Dean agrees, Sam staying here might be for the best. He’ll have parental figures to own up to, he’ll have someone older and wiser to keep him in line. Dean would do it himself, he basically raised his little brother all on his own and refused the help that was offered to him, but he can’t afford to take that risk anymore. Sam needs serious help, more than Dean can give him on his own.

The only part of this equation that doesn’t seem to add up is where Lisa’s going to be if Sam’s in the guest room. Dean’s moving Cas into his place, and there’s simply no room for Lisa in that scenario. Sam, sure, but Lisa? That’s just asking for trouble.

“In the guest room?” Dean confirms, narrowing his eyes when Bobby nods. “So where’s Lisa going to be?”

Dean can practically _feel_ the sudden, violent tension erupt around the table.

“Son,” Bobby starts, almost a whisper. He opens his mouth to speak, to follow up on what was meant to be a soft, loving cushion before the fall, but Dean stops him. He knows what Bobby is going to say.

Dean holds up his hand, urging Bobby and Charlie to stay silent. His heart aches, and a lump swells in his throat like an overinflated balloon. He can feel it with every fiber of his being, can feel Lisa’s absence in a way he hadn’t even noticed before. She wasn’t here when they arrived, wasn’t awake and drinking coffee this morning despite being such an early riser.

Lisa is gone. Wouldn’t be the first time, after all. She left him without so much as a ‘goodbye’ the first time around, left the ring on top of the fucking note like that made them even.

He wonders if she left a note behind this time, if she even spared a second thought at leaving him behind again.

“Where’d she go?” Dean asks, keeping his face straight and solid. Now isn’t the time to break down, isn’t the time to crumple into a little ball and let himself die.

Charlie takes a deep breath, chewing on her lower lip to keep the tears welling in her eyes at bay. “Wichita,” she breathes, looking away, “with her boyfriend.”

“She, uh…did she leave a note?” Dean is almost laughing, the shock eating away at his ability to react appropriately.

“Lisa called us, Dean, after she left,” Bobby answers, reaching one hand halfway across the table before stopping himself, letting it settle limply in front of him, “she confessed to everything, son. Said the baby wasn’t yours and that it wasn’t fair to burden you with that.”

 _Burden_ lodges in his heart like a thorn, sharp and throbbing and wrong. Dean is no stranger to burden; he knows what it’s like to be saddled with unwanted tasks, what it’s like to spend a lifetime making sure others are okay at his own expense. John was definitely a burden, and hell, even Sam was a burden in certain respects. He thinks of all the burdens he’s endured over the years, all the times he’s put someone else before himself, and he can say with complete honesty that Lisa’s baby was the first burden he actually wanted.

Taking care of John and Sam was never a choice. It was never something he could have declined or gone without. It was essential, necessary for survival, absolutely imperative that his family survived as best they could because without them, Dean would have been nothing. He loves his family, loved his father with an unrivaled fierceness, but for the first time in his life he actually had a choice. He could have turned Lisa away and rejected the baby, could have demanded a paternity test or told Lisa to go fuck herself.

He didn’t. Not out of obligation, not because it was the moral thing to do, but because he genuinely fell in love with the idea of being a father.

Dean didn’t even care if the baby was his. That’s how far gone he was for that little boy.

“Yeah,” Dean says, though he’s not sure what he’s agreeing to. Maybe it’s the idea that he should have known he’d never actually get that chance, or that he should have known all along that Lisa wasn’t faithful when they were together. He wanted so badly to believe in miracles, to believe that sometimes clouds really do have silver linings, but life has a way of reminding him that he’s at God’s mercy and nothing else really matters.

And Lisa – fuck, he’d really done all wrong by her, hadn’t he? Dean was a terrible boyfriend, an even worse lover and confidant. He didn’t deserve the love she offered him, the love she wanted reciprocated so badly. Lisa found it with someone else and got pregnant. She’s bringing so much joy and love and happiness into the world for another man who deserves it so much more than Dean ever will.

Even now, he can’t blame her. He can only manage to blame himself.

Dean rises from the table without another word, ignoring the protests from Bobby and Charlie because there’s nothing they can really say to make it better. A small part of him knows he should be relieved, knows that this is for the best and that he and Cas can devote themselves completely to each other now. That small part of him may be vocal, but it’s nothing compared to the black hole beside it. It’s nothing compared to the vast void that eats away at the few remaining shreds of dignity and hope that linger in spite of the toxic world Dean lives in.

They were right to fear him. Bobby’s strange looks and Charlie’s strategic clinging make sense now, he knows. Dean really did break the first time Lisa abandoned him, and then he shattered himself for weeks when she returned. He wonders what they’re imagining he’s going to do, wonders how scared they are for him or even for Cas. Dean is a pinball suspended on a coiled spring, always has been, and news like this shoots him down the path of destruction. No one can predict what he’ll do or how long he’ll do it. Dean can see it in their eyes, the building panic that he’s going to run off and do something stupid and ruin all the progress he’s made, just like last time.

Cas is still sleeping steadily on the floor, curled up in a slightly tighter ball with the quilt clutched firmly between his fingers. His hair is artfully skewed all over the pillow, his lips parted over slow, even breaths. He’s beautiful, so damn perfect it hurts, and he doesn’t deserve to go through another Winchester whirlwind. Dean doesn’t want to wake him, doesn’t want to cause a scene in front of him or scare him away once again.

He leans down and plants a soft kiss to his temple. Cas’ lip twitches into a temporary, unconscious smile.

“I’ll, uh…I’ll see you later,” Dean says, looking back at Bobby and Charlie. They’re still sitting at the table, faces red and eyes brimming with tears. They don’t deserve this either, shouldn’t have to watch Dean break down and destroy himself like they have so many times before.

They say nothing. Dean figures that’s for the best.

He pulls on his clothes, but drapes his leather jacket over Cas to keep him warm. Maybe when he wakes up and finds himself beneath Dean’s jacket, he won’t feel quite so alone.

҉     ҉     ҉

                                                                                            

Dean drives for a long time.

He doesn’t go anywhere in particular. He drives around Lawrence for a while, letting himself get lost between the streets and the farmland. He blares Zeppelin so loud that he has to keep the windows down so his ear drums don’t snap under the heavy vibrations. Dean wouldn’t really mind if they did at this point, wouldn’t care if he never had to hear another word again. The English language has caused him so much more pain than any weapon or force of nature, has cut him deeper and longer and left him bleeding like a discarded carcass. Hearing seems overrated.

He’d miss the sound of Cas’ voice, though. He’d miss the way it riles it him up and flushes his skin with heat, the gravelly way he rasps when they’re both aroused and can’t get enough of each other. That’s something Dean doesn’t want to live without, can’t even imagine losing it without feeling the familiar prickle of distress.

Dean eventually turns down the music, but it takes him hours to finally pull into his driveway and stop the car. He didn’t want to; driving is the only thing he can do to keep himself from screaming, to keep himself in one piece, but he was starting to consider driving all the way to Wichita to find Lisa. He could picture himself hunting her down and throwing her against the wall, shouting at her, tearing her apart piece by piece until she was just a puddle of tears and noise. Then he’d shake the hand of the asshole who knocked her up, thanking him for screwing his fiancée and helping him see what a two-faced whore she really is.

Dean doesn’t think he could ever actually do that. He’d never hurt a pregnant woman, or any woman for that matter, but he’s teetering along a fine line right now and he doesn’t want to test himself. It’s better to handle this alone in his empty house rather than tempt himself with violent, vindictive fantasies.

There are boxes on his porch, long and slender and stacked on top of each other with some kind of receipt taped to the side. He looks them over, trying to remember if he had purchased something and forgot about it, but nothing comes to mind. The date written on the box shows that they were delivered two days ago, so he hopes there’s nothing inside that couldn’t handle the heat.

He realizes what they are the moment he unlocks the door.

Wood. It’s the fucking rosewood Charlie must have ordered for the baby’s crib.

“Fuck! God-fucking-dammit!”

Dean kicks the front door so hard that it swings open and crashes into the wall, punching into it a knob-sized hole. He kicks it again and again, the wood splintering beneath his shoe and cracking the hole until it looks like a giant web, little lines branching out and peeling from repeated impact. He’s so fucking pissed that he doesn’t care, doesn’t feel like the damage he’s doing is even enough to satisfy the rage that demands for more.

He hates her. He fucking hates Lisa so much that it burns his blood and blinds him with a wrath he’s never felt before. Dean’s never hated anyone as much as he hates her, didn’t even think this level of revulsion and disgust was possible until it blindsided him and drove his fist through the drywall. His own father made him believe he was capable of murder and Dean doesn’t hate him like this, doesn’t hate Ruby or Benny or Sam with even a fraction of what he’s feeling right now. The anger he feels toward them is practically nothing, a meager joke in comparison.

They may have dragged Dean through mud and muck and hell, they may have bruised his heart and mind and soul in ways that are irreparable, but they never did what Lisa managed to accomplish. They never promised him so much happiness, never offered him fatherhood and unconditional love for a sweet newborn, only to rip it all away and slink off in the middle of the night like a coward. The thought of parenthood scared him so much, so deeply, but only because of his intense fear of failure. That little boy was almost like a second chance, a shot at redemption, the one right thing that came out of all the wrong he’s ever done.

Dean has got to be the most gullible, stupid human being that has ever existed. She waltzed back into his life dressed to strike, fed him some bullshit story about trying to do the right thing, even found a way to make her disappearance Dean’s fault. He ate it all, swallowed every last lie and let himself be swept away by the fantasy of fatherhood. He didn’t even know he wanted it until Lisa showed up with that round belly and those glowing cheeks. It’s nothing he would have ever missed if she hadn’t of thrust it on him so suddenly and demanded help.

It hurts. It hurts so fucking much.

He looks at the stack of boxes then, wondering what in the hell he’s supposed to do with all the rosewood now that he’s not actually having a baby. Just seeing them feels like he’s being kicked when he’s already down, like they’re the punchline of the awful joke made at Dean’s expense. It’s so unfair, so unjustified, and he’s sick with all the hopes and dreams he kept locked tightly away that will never be realized, that will never come to fruition now that Lisa is gone.

He could send all the wood back. Maybe he’ll demand a refund and use the money to get drunk.

Or maybe he’ll build himself a coffin, crawl inside of it, and then light the damn thing on fire.

Dean drags the obscenely heavy boxes inside, laying them out on his kitchen floor and locking the fractured front door behind him. He stares at the boxes, analyzing them with renewed intent to do something with the wood even if he’s not going to have a son.

He’s sidetracked for a moment by a few errant thoughts. He wonders if this is how some men feel when their wives miscarry, if this is how fathers feel when they hold stillborn children in their arms. Dean feels like his child was ripped away from him, feels like all the fantasies of cradling a little boy and singing _Hey Jude_ until he falls asleep have been robbed. There was never a promise of an apple pie life, he knew his son would struggle with split parents and question why Dean didn’t love his mother as much as he loved Cas, but he knew it would be worth it. New life is beautiful and promising, and raising that life is an arduous task with rewards greater than all the fucking money in the world.

Dean is so angry. He’s sure he could grab a thesaurus and look up a multitude of words that describe the level of anguish he feels, but in the end, it wouldn’t make a difference. He’s angry, devastated, ruined. He’s everything he never wanted to be, again.

He grabs a pair of scissors from the kitchen counter and cuts open every box. Seeing the rosewood unwrapped does nothing to ease the pain. If anything, it only intensifies it further. His fingers glide smoothly over the rich, dark slabs, tracing the faint lines of purples and blues that bleed from the reddish grain. It’s gorgeous, even if it does feel like it’s simultaneously mocking him. His baby would have loved to fall asleep in the crib, would have grown with this very wood surrounding him each night and aiding his youthful, innocent dreams.

It strikes Dean that those things could still be true. It may not be his son, he may not get the joy of parenthood that he so desperately desires, but for a brief moment in time that little boy was a part of his life, a part of his future. He can give that baby something that will last him many years, something to remember Dean by even if they never actually meet. The jealousy he feels for Lisa’s mysterious boyfriend is sidelined to make way for the desire to do something good, to rise above all of the bullshit and build an olive branch in the shape of a crib.

Lisa doesn’t deserve it, her boyfriend doesn’t deserve it, but Dean needs it. He needs to mourn and make something beautiful with his hands. He needs to go through the nesting process before he can learn how to give it all up. He can’t say goodbye to something he never got to fully experience.

Dean drags each slab of wood into the empty guest room, the room meant for his son. He had plans for this room, plans that will never be realized, but that’s okay. He should really learn not to be disappointed by these things, not to be surprised every time something terrible happens because they happen so fucking often.

He has the blueprints for the crib memorized in his head. It’s not hard to remember all of the details for something he thought about so often, not to know them like the back of his hand when it crossed his mind practically every free moment of every day. He knows the safety standards and knows how to make it structurally sound.

Dean grabs the necessary tools from the garage, taking more than he thinks might be necessary, then gets to work.

He spends hours in the guest room, hours on building on the crib to perfection. He starts with the base, cutting the slats to fit perfectly so they can support a mattress and a sleeping infant. He does the sides next, making them solid planes of wood so the little boy can’t see through them. Only the front of the crib will have slender slats, even though he knows all the baby books say that infants should be able to look around and see everything from every angle. He wanted Charlie to paint those sides, wanted his best friend to create a beautiful, eye catching scene for his son to see. Just because the boy isn’t his anymore, just because he’s not going to be father doesn’t mean the vision for the crib has to change. Lisa can do whatever she wants with it.

Time passes without his awareness, much like it always does, though today it should be more significant than he’s allowed it to be. Sam is at Bobby’s house, going through withdrawals and trying to deal with his new reality, and everyone else is probably discussing the best way to deal with a runaway Dean. He still can’t blame them, he knows he’s twelve shades of fucked up and hasn’t learned how to deal with loss, but he’s doing what he can. He’s making something out of nothing, taking anger and using it as fuel to build something meaningful when nothing else in his life makes sense.

When the doorbell rings, it pulls Dean out of the depths of his own despair. He’s made a lot of progress on the crib, it’s almost finished minus the sculpting details and rounding out the edges so the baby doesn’t hurt himself on a sharp corner. He’s kind of proud of it, actually. Dean may never be the one who gets to lay a baby down to sleep inside of it, maybe never get to reach around blindly while attempting to change a diaper because it’s dark and the middle of the night, but he’s proud. Even if it’s not him, this crib will bring someone joy.

Dean stands and stretches his legs, brushing off the thin layer of wood shavings and dust, then goes to the door. Cas is standing there with wide, worried eyes, shifting his weight from one foot to the other like he’s nervous and doesn’t know what to say. Dean gives him the best smile he can afford. It isn’t much, probably more alarming than it is comforting, but there’s not much else can do. He feels hollow and desolate and ruined.

“Dean,” he says, reaching a hand out before stopping himself, drawing his fingers back to form a fist at his side, “I just…I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

Cas looks, for the lack of a better word, scared. Dean knows he left him to wake up alone, to wake up and have to hear from everyone else what happened, and he probably spent the entire day worried and sick to his stomach with the thought that Dean would sink again.

Dean would have dispelled that illusion immediately if he could have, but he honestly didn’t know what he was going to do until he started doing it. He could have ended up in Wichita with Lisa’s blood on his hands just as easily, could have drank himself into a stupor if it weren’t for the damn boxes of rosewood that just happened to land on his porch with perfect, painful timing.

“Better, now that you’re here,” Dean replies, and he knows it’s cheesy and cliché but it’s truer than anything else he could have said. “I need you.”

He didn’t mean to say that last part, didn’t mean to expose his weak, mushy insides, but Cas didn’t need to be told twice. He pulled Dean in close and guided them inside, kicking the door closed and wrapping his arms around Dean even tighter. He can feel the relief melting from Cas’ shoulders, can feel the fear and tension and sorrow slip away as they hold each other and mutter soft promises in the small space between them.

Dean had ignored Cas the last time something like this happened. He had left Cas to suffer and pushed him away, refusing to answer the door even though they both knew Dean could hear the knocking and the ringing doorbell. Poor Cas, he must have been so afraid and worried that Dean wouldn’t answer again. He must have thought the worst, must have told himself not to expect an answer at all.

He hates himself for it, hates that it’s his own fault Cas was afraid. This isn’t just some random person to lecture him, this isn’t a concerned family member or a nagging friend out to teach him a lesson. This is _his_ man, _his_ lover, the only person in the world he can really be broken in front of. He loves Cas so much, and it’s the only feeling he’s ever felt that can do anything to counteract the immense pain and loss he’s trying to suffer through in solitude. Cas is the only antidote the poison that’s killing him slowly.

“I love you,” Dean says, desperate and sorry. He’s so much more emotional than he wanted to be, but he knows he’s safe with Cas. “I’m sorry.”

“No, Dean,” Cas says, talking around a sob that’s growing in his throat, “ _I’m_ sorry. You don’t – God, you don’t deserve this.”

Dean can’t hold back the tears then, can’t stop the sobs that tear themselves free from his lungs. He cries into the warm crease of Cas’ neck, gripping the fabric of his ridiculous trench coat and refusing to let go. Cas holds him for what feels like an eternity, he doesn’t budge or make a sound until Dean has cried his soul out through every one of his pores. He feels empty by the time he’s done, feels devoid of anything but self-pity and heartache. Cas just strokes his hair and kisses his ear, whispering sweet nothings and gentle messages of encouragement that are all probably banalities, but he doesn’t care.

It’s evening, Dean realizes. A single glance out the window tells him he’s been sulking like this all day, been drowning himself in misery while his boyfriend worried endlessly until he worked up the courage to come here.

Whenever Dean dies, be it tomorrow or fifty years from now, he doesn’t want to be known as the man who made other people uneasy. He doesn’t want people to fear his volatile instability anymore.

“I’m so stupid,” he cries, softening his grip on Cas. “I wanted to be a dad.”

“I know, I know baby,” Cas says, practically rocking Dean in his arms, “but it’s not over, okay? I promise. There are other options, Dean. This isn’t the end of the road.”

He knows it’s true, he knows there are options for couples who can’t conceive on their own. It’s hard for him to imagine anything like that happening now, too painful to picture trying to adopt a baby or finding a surrogate to carry their child to term. Dean was ready for the little boy he was supposed to have. He prepared himself for weeks, let himself get caught up in the romance and fuzzy edges of having a baby with Lisa but raising it with Cas.

He pictured a little boy with dark hair and dark eyes, but full of Dean’s rebellious, rock-music spirit.

He may never be ready for another child after this, may never be willing to set himself up for this kind of failure again.

“I don’t know what to do,” Dean admits, pulling away from the embrace to catch his breath, “I built the crib, but I don’t know what to do with it.”

Cas wipes away a stray tear and tilts his head, one side of his mouth lifting in a hesitant smile. “That was really sweet of you, Dean. I’d love to see it.”

Dean doesn’t know how he feels about showing someone the crib, it’s incomplete and represents every ounce of his worthlessness and inability to make people happy, but it would be a waste to have spent all day building it just to let it rot unseen. He nods, taking another deep breath, then wraps his fingers around Cas’ and tugs him along to the guest room.

The crib is simple, mostly flat and unpolished. The frame is complete, the structure solid and sturdy, but carving in the details and rounding the edges will take more time. It needs sanded and primed and polished, too, but he’s done enough for one day. He worked out the worst of his fury and rage, calmed the hungry beast inside of him roaring for blood. Cas being here only settles him further, makes him feel safe and so much less alone.

“It’s beautiful,” Cas says, fully smiling now and looking at Dean with reverence. He doesn’t deserve that kind of look, doesn’t deserve to be treated like something special when he’s so obviously not.

“I want the baby to have it,” Dean admits, his voice barely above a wrecked whisper. “None of this is his fault, you know? That baby deserves a nice crib. It’s the least I can do for him.”

Cas looks thoughtful for a moment, then reaches over and trails a careful hand over Dean’s back, smoothing his shirt over the knobs of his spine. “You should call her. See if she wants it.”

Dean doesn’t think that’s a good idea. He doesn’t know if he’d be able to control himself, doesn’t know if he could stop himself from taking his anger out on her or the boy’s real father. Yet, despite those completely logical fears, he finds himself pulling out his cellphone and dialing Lisa’s number.

As the phone rings, he excuses himself and walks out to the kitchen. It doesn’t quite feel right, doesn’t feel like the right place to have this conversation, so he heads outside and sits on his porch swing. He even grabs a cigarette from his secret stash beneath the arm rest, lighting up and taking a deep, much needed drag. He hasn’t smoked in so long, doesn’t want to start up the habit again either, but if there was ever an occasion where Dean needed to let loose a bit and keep himself from flying off the handle, it would be now.

The phone rings and rings, and after a certain number of times, Dean knows she’s not going to answer. He didn’t even really know what he was going to say, didn’t plan anything out in his head, but when the familiar robotic voice instructs him to leave a message, Dean clears his throat and decides to wing it.

“Hey, Lisa…it’s me, Dean. I know you left, and I, uh…I know why you did it. I’m not going to lie, it hurts pretty fucking bad, but I guess I can’t be too mad about it, not really. I guess a part of me always knew.”

Dean has to pause for a moment, swallowing back the urge to start crying again with a puff of his cigarette.

“I just…I want you to know I’m sorry. I really am, for everything. I know I wasn’t a very good boyfriend to you. I know I made a lot of mistakes, and I’m sorry. The rest of it, everything that happened afterward…it doesn’t really matter. We’re just a couple of idiots, and I get that, okay? I get it. I’m not gonna lie, I’m mad as hell and I don’t know how to get over it, but trust me when I say I want you to be happy.”

He pulls another long drag deep into his lungs, watching the burning cherry glow as his fingertips start to tingle.

“I got Sam back, and he’s going to be in Wichita for a bit getting treatment. So, uh…you know, if you ever feel like getting a coffee, or if you wouldn’t mind me saying hi to the baby, I’m up for it. I built the crib I told you about, and I don’t know what your situation is like right now, but you can have it. All that wood was never meant to be anything but that little boy’s crib, and I’d like him to have it.”

Dean is crying now, again, unable to stop himself. He feels like a fool for crying into his phone, for letting Lisa’s answering machine record his cries like he’s some kind of blubbering moron.

“Take care of yourself, Lisa,” is all he can manage to say before the phone beeps, letting him know his time has run out. He hangs up the phone and stares off into the street, letting the tears fall freely over his face while he finishes smoking the first cigarette he’s had in months.

He doesn’t know where those words of kindness came from, doesn’t know how he was able to stay calm when all he wanted to do was punch her through the phone, but he knows he meant everything he said. He was genuine, sincere, more honest than he’s been in a long time. After everything he’s been through, after all the exposed secrets and the hardships that fell into his lap, Dean doesn’t think he knows how to be any other way.

Maybe he’s not so broken after all.


	32. Chapter 32

**NINE MONTHS LATER**

The waiting room is comfortable, if not a little cluttered, and has that ‘homey’ feeling that doesn’t leave Dean feeling like he’s at a doctor’s office. The walls are painted a neutral gold, there’s a potted plant in the corner, and motivational posters and informative pamphlets seem to litter the open space. It’s not bad for a rehab facility; not like the white, clinical setting he pictured in his head.

Bobby grumbles beside him as he shifts his weight in the stiff chair, eyes darting around for a magazine to occupy his time. Dean narrows his focus on the group of people in a nearby room, the door open, each person taking a turn and talking about their worst experience as an addict; their lowest point. He didn’t like to eavesdrop, it wasn’t really his style, but there wasn’t exactly much else to do while they waited and they left the door wide open. Couldn’t have been that private.

Dean listens as one girl talks about her rock bottom. She had been drinking heavily with her friends, wandering around outside and living it up, but she woke up to discover she had passed out on the side of the road and her shoes were missing. She was alone and had to walk several miles back home without anything to protect her feet. Dean thinks it’s kind of a weak story, but he’s learned a lot about relativity these past few months and he’s not really one to judge.

A short, perky blonde peeks her head out of the one of the office doors, looking down at a clipboard then out to the waiting room. She smiles, double checks her paperwork, then says, “Dean Winchester?”

Bobby pats Dean’s knee and wishes him good luck. “Thanks,” Dean says, because he’s really going to need it.

Becky’s office is orderly and very, very pink. Fake flowers decorate much of the room, and a stack of Edlund fiction novels are piled high by her computer. She seems sweet, almost sickeningly so, like an unwanted mouthful of cotton candy.

Dean does his best not to feel uncomfortable. He sits on the plush leather couch at Becky’s guidance, clenching and unclenching his fists out of nervous habit. It reminds him too much of the aborted counseling sessions he attempted with a young woman named Madison, even though she had the presence of a mature, educated lady. Becky has the painful personality of an adolescent going through puberty, or perhaps a junior high cheerleader, and there’s no way in hell he’d even be in her office if it weren’t about Sam.

Talking to her over the phone was an exercise in patience, a virtue that Dean wasn’t exactly born with. Sam is going to owe him big time for this.

“Hello, Dean,” Becky chirps, her voice slightly more annoying in person, “it’s good to finally meet you.”

“Likewise,” he lies, not bothering to attempt a smile. He’s known this day was coming for a couple of weeks now, but the advance notice did very little to soothe his anxiety.

“This is just a pre-meeting of sorts so I can explain to you what’s going to happen. It’s not a complicated event or anything, so no worries there, but we’ve learned that the whole thing goes down a lot smoother when everyone knows what to expect,” Becky starts, leaning back in her blue, overstuffed chair. She looks Dean over from head to toe, twice, her eyes trailing over his legs and chest.

It’s kind of fucking weird, especially when she bites her lip and grips the pen in her hand a little tighter. He clears his throat – come on now, this ain’t some Fifty Shades bullshit and he’s taken, thank you – and her eyes dart back to his, apologetic.

“You remind me a lot of Sam,” she says, saving face, “you have the same mannerisms.”

Dean lifts an eyebrow at that, unimpressed with her attempt to justify the ogling, but before he can reply, she cuts him off with, “Like that! He does the same thing with his eyebrow, too. Funny how siblings are like that.”

He huffs, not knowing what else to do. He’s never been good at small talk, never felt comfortable in these little rooms with professionals who analyze him even when he doesn’t want it. Becky looks at him with light in her eyes, patiently awaiting an answer, but after several awkward moments pass in silence, she starts nervously chewing on the inside of her cheeks. Dean feels kind of bad for her; she seems awkward and unsociable, despite having a career that depends on being able to relate to people and making them trust her.

Dean decides to throw her a bone. This whole thing is going to be miserable enough without her feeling more weird or isolated than she has to. “Hey, I’m the older brother. That means he just copied me, right?” He flashes the most genuine smile he can afford, which probably isn’t all that convincing, but Becky takes it with gratitude and laughs.  He can see the tension slipping from her shoulders as she relaxes further into her seat, so he knows his acting skills aren’t as rusty as he thought.

“Fair point,” she concedes, looking down at her clip board, “so, have you ever been to an S.O. meeting before?”

Dean wants to scoff at her, wants to roll his eyes or do something equally passive-aggressive to show her how ridiculous that question is. If he had ever been to a meeting like this before, there would be no need for this stupid pre-meeting. Obviously. “No,” he says, staying civil. He’s in the fighting mood, but his fight isn’t with her.

“It’s pretty simple,” she says, leaning forward and keeping her eye contact steady, “we’ll be sitting in a circle so everyone can see each other. Each person will introduce themselves, and then your brother will begin. He’ll start with his apologies, meaning he’ll tell you about the things he’s most sorry for; the things he regrets the most since his addiction began. Everything he says will be specifically about you though, okay? Today is about you and Sam, and Sam and Bobby. He’s only going to talk about the ways his addiction has affected your relationship.”

Dean gets it, it’s not rocket science, but it still pisses him off that he has to go through such a personal thing with strangers watching. Not just regular, random strangers, but drug addicts who happen to be going through to the same program. He doesn’t know how to feel about that, doesn’t know if he really wants those people to hear about the ways his life has been changed thanks to Sam’s weak constitution, but he doesn’t have much choice. This is an essential part of Sam’s recovery, and Dean’s not about to do anything that could compromise that.

“Right,” Dean says, acknowledging her explanation. She nods.

“When that part is done, after he’s made all his apologies and stuff, he’ll tell both you and Bobby how he plans to change. He’ll probably make some promises about how he’ll be different, or how he plans on making things up to you, and that’s where the others come in. They act as witnesses on your behalf to help keep Sam accountable for his actions and his promises.”

It hurts to hear, probably more than it should. Dean understands why accountability is important, why the witnesses are necessary, but it irritates him that Sam needs strangers to help convince him to stay clean. Like those people he barely knows, that he’s barely bunked with in the last eight months or so are more important or more substantial than Dean was in the last twenty years.  He has to take a deep breath, has to count to ten with slow inhales like Madison taught him to keep from punching something.

He knows it’s not that those people are more important. He knows it’s because audiences in general make a person feel more obligated to follow through, but it still stings. Even after all this time, Dean still struggles with feeling like he’s enough, and this situation isn’t exactly helping.

Sensing Dean’s discomfort – or getting bored with the tense silence – Becky smiles inelegantly and hums. “Was there anything in particular you wanted Sam to apologize for?”

The question catches Dean off-guard. _Sure_ , he thinks, spitefully, _for making me drive across the country twice to save his ass. Or the time he said it wouldn’t matter if I was fucking dead. Relapsing twice after all the shit we did for him, too – not to mention the crap he pulled with Cas._ But Dean can’t say those things out loud, not really. The guilt Sam feels is burden enough; weighs on him like the cricket Dean can’t seem to rid himself of, drags him down during the few moments of happiness he’s allowed himself since they got back to Kansas. He can’t let Sam know that he’s still pissed about a lot of it, especially about a few things in particular. Dean can forge his own happiness these days, he can put aside those memories for the sake of harmony. He can’t, however, make his brother feel worse. Sam’s life depends on it.

“Uh,” Dean breathes, scratching at the back of his neck, “not really, I guess. I mean, after so long it all starts blending together. Whatever he does, once you know it’s the heroin, it all kind of feels the same.”

For a bleak, uninterrupted moment, Dean wonders if Sam was sober when he left the first time; if that first, agonizing act of betrayal was fueled by drugs. How long has his little brother really been keeping this secret?

It doesn’t really matter though, in the end. It doesn’t make it hurt any less.

“Yeah,” Becky agrees, writing something down on her clipboard, “I hear that a lot. Family members of addicts often express desensitization towards those behaviors.”

 _Or maybe they just don’t want to tell you about it_ , Dean corrects, ‘cause he sure the fuck isn’t numb to all of Sam’s heroin bullshit.

“Well, I think that about does it. I’ll let Sam know that there isn’t anything specific you wanted him to cover, and he and I will join you in the meeting room in just a few minutes. You and Bobby can head on in, alright? Your seats will be the two empty ones closest to the door, and I made sure to put a box of tissues there just in case you need them. Sometimes these meetings can get a little emotional,” she smiles, trying to be lighthearted about it.

Dean just glares at her in response. He figures Sam will just apologize for being an asshat, promise not to be one again the future, and that will be that. He’s not going to need to tissues for that.

“It seems you and Bobby share some mannerisms as well,” Becky says, leaning back and looking away. She looks tense again, almost fearful, and it makes Dean laugh. Bobby must have given her the same glare, too.

Becky points Dean and Bobby in the direction of the meeting room, and they follow the narrow hallway until they’re crossing over an abrupt change in carpet and into a large, open area. There’s a handful of people sitting in low budget chairs in a big circle, leaving only four empty chairs available to sit in. Two on one side, two on the other. He and Bobby take the chairs closest to the door, sitting awkwardly in the room full of people they’ve never met. And, as Becky promised, a box of tissues sat on the floor between their seats.

Bobby rolls his eyes with an impatient huff.

The room is like any other room, really – there are more of the cliché motivational posters everywhere, each one giving a different reason why it’s important to push on through the tough times, why it’s important to forgive and forget and forbear. The other people in the room seem to be an even split between males and females, each looking a little lost or on edge, each one a struggling client of the program. Dean’s not sure what to call them; what do you call a person who’s technically an addict but no longer using? A person who seems miserable to exist but forges on for the sake of others?

He laughs at himself, realizing the irony of his question. _Well_ , he jokes, _I know I preferred to be called Dean_.

It’s not the case anymore, but the thought is no less funny. Bobby gives him a strange, sideways glance at the chuckle, and Dean just shrugs his shoulders in response. There’s not a lot that can be explained about self-loathing, no matter how distant it may be in the past.

Sam comes in, accompanied by a young woman with long curly hair, thick and dark. Her features remind him subtly of Ruby, angular and defined, but a little softer and nondescript. Where Ruby’s face had been sharpened with wit and bold defiance, this girl’s expression is muted by sorrow and loss. She’s folded in on herself like she’s afraid of the room, one hand clutching at the fabric of her purple sweater and the other gripping tightly to Sam’s flannel shirt.

Dean wants to crack a relationship joke out of pure habit, something about girls being particularly needy in rehab (though he doesn’t know from experience) or how fast his little brother managed to move despite segregated housing. He stops himself, though. Now is clearly not the right time to say such things, even if they weren’t surrounded by a bunch of strangers.

When Sam and the girl sit beside each other in the chairs, Dean watches closely at the way they interact. They’re not being gropey or gross, but they’re leaning into each other like old, close friends, like kindred spirits. Dean’s no detective, but there’s something slightly off about the way they’re dancing around each other. It’s not intimate, not yet, but not as basal as friendship. He wonders if they know they’re using each other, if they know that their desperation and fear is what’s keeping them so closely tied. It doesn’t take a genius to see it, not with the way they’re so obviously clinging to each other despite the brick wall erected between them, but Dean recognizes it solely through experienced eyes. He knows what it’s like to be codependent with a couple of parasites.

Not that the girl is a parasite. Dean gets a distinct ‘old soul’ vibe from her, but it’s not feelings of adoration or lust that has her sitting so closely to his brother – it’s the fear of being alone.

Becky comes in with a gleeful, over the top smile, interrupting Dean’s thoughts. She pulls a chair from the far wall and situates herself between a couple of the other people, opening her notebook. Sam has been avoiding Dean’s gaze since the moment he came in, weary of even looking in Dean’s or Bobby’s direction, but he looks to Becky now, and she nods.

“Welcome everyone! We’ll start with introductions so everyone can get to know each other first, and then Sam will take over and the meeting can officially begin. Most of you know this already, so you can just tune me out while I direct this part at our guests,” Becky instructs, turning her focus to Dean, “we call this an S.O. meeting because it gives the people here a chance to talk to their significant others in a safe, neutral environment. Sam felt like you two were the most significant people in his life, which is why you were asked to participate today. I only ask that you don’t say anything until Sam is completely finished, at which time you’ll able to respond. If you find that you don’t have anything to say, telling Sam you love or support him will be sufficient.”

Dean doesn’t get why Becky didn’t say all that crap inside her office, it wasn’t anything that seemed like it had to be said in front of everyone else, but it does make him realize the power of an audience. Everyone in here knows now that Sam thinks they’re the most important people in his life, so they’d better damn well have something constructive to say at the end of it.

A simple ‘love you’ would seem like the easy way out, now that Becky made it the safety net in lieu of anything better to say.

Each person takes their turn and announces their name, age, and length of sobriety. Dean doesn’t pay attention to most of it, it’s a little too kindergarten for his tastes, but he can’t deny the ache at hearing Sam say he’s only forty-five days sober. Nine months in rehab and two relapses later, that’s all Sam can really claim for success. Dean doesn’t know how to feel about that.

Then it’s quiet. Sam is picking at a stray thread dangling from the knee of his jeans, trembling almost imperceptibly from the pressure to speak. Amelia – that’s what she said her name is, right? – pats his back and whispers something in his ear. Sam offers a hesitant smile, sitting more upright in his chair, then begins.

“Uh…Bobby, I’ll start with you first, I guess,” Sam says, the strength of his voice hiding whatever tendrils of fear may still be growing inside him. “I asked you to come today because you’ve always been like a father to me - to us,” he corrects, darting the slimmest of glances at Dean, “you were always there for us when we needed it, when it counted the most. You did what no one else do. When everyone else looked away and ignored what was happening, you stepped up. You didn’t turn a blind eye, Bobby, you looked right at us and extended a hand, and for that I will be eternally grateful.”

Bobby’s brows shoot up into his hairline.

“I never appreciated you, never thanked you. I stole from you, lied to you, yelled at Jody…I made a lot of mistakes since I’ve been back, and I’m sorry. You never gave up on me, though. I took advantage of that, too – God, I’m such a shit,” Sam whines, bowing his head and burying his face in his hands. Amelia rubs his back and offers a few kind words of encouragement, which seems to help.

Bobby looks like he’s about to say something, but he catches the minute shake of Becky’s head, reminding him to stay silent. He sighs defiantly, then zips his lips.

“I know it put a big strain on your marriage, Bobby,” Sam continues, lowering his hands from his reddened face, “I know Jody was afraid of me for a while there. I know how uncomfortable it was for her, how often you guys fought over it, and I’m so sorry about that. Things will be different now though, okay? I’m going to make it up to you however you’ll let me. And I’ll, uh, pay you back. You had to make some pretty big sacrifices to keep me here, and when I graduate from the program I promise I’ll pay you back every dime.”

The room is starting to feel heavy, like the walls are creeping closer, inch by inch. Dean tugs at the collar of his shirt, trying to subtly relieve the ghosting fingers gripping around his neck. He doesn’t know why he’s feeling this way, like everyone is staring and whispering and laughing at his expense. It’s not quite panic, not quite anger, but something sickening mixed with paranoia and disbelief. Sam’s not even talking to him yet and already Dean feels like this is too much.

Bobby seems to agree, because the look on his face is one of impatience and discomfort. Bobby may not be a Winchester, but men like them were cut from the same cloth and they’re not exactly made for this kind of heartwarming, Hallmark crap.

This may be the first time they’ve done this, the first time they’ve attended a meeting where Sam apologized, but the last nine months have been a special brand of torturous Hell that no one was quite prepared for.

Dean never imagined that he could ever wish for Sam to die. It sickens him to think about, makes him feel ashamed and twisted up inside, but there were times when Dean thought death may have been a mercy for his little brother. There were times when Dean desperately wished for an end to the Sam-centered circus everyone had to endure, to not have to worry about what was going to happen next, to not have to lock away his valuables to keep them from being stolen.

It seems petty now to think that he would ever trade Sam for peace of mind, but those thoughts happened and there’s no point in denying it.

Sam gives Bobby an apprehensive smile, then turns to Amelia with his hand out, waiting for something. Amelia reaches into the front pocket of her oversized sweater, pulling out a book and placing it gently in Sam’s hand. Dean recognizes it immediately – that stupid book he stole from Sam’s room, more worn and tattered than it had been the last time he saw it. Here it is again, teasing him somehow, because Dean still hasn’t finished the damn thing. Actually, he pretty much forgot all about it until just now, and it’s making him uneasy.

“Dean,” Sam says, pulling his eyes from the book to his brother, “it took me a long time to figure out what I was going to say to you. You never deserved any of this, you never asked for it, but you didn’t complain, not once.”

It’s a strange thing to hear those words spoken out loud, to hear them from the mouth of his little brother after all this time. It’s like the words are suddenly real and hold meaning, like they’re not just a series of cohesive letters anymore, not just the pitying sentiments of a lover or a father figure.

“I resented you so much, Dean. I was angry all the time, but you just took it and took it and took it. I felt like…like it was so unfair I was stuck with a shitty dad and no mom, but there you were always taking care of me and doing everything dad wouldn’t do. I started hating you for it; you never stood up to dad, and I don’t know why but I always expected you to take me away from it and save me somehow. I treated you like a father more than I ever treated you like a brother, and that wasn’t fair to you.”

Sam’s eyes hold steady as they bore into Dean, sincere and warm and brimming with tears. Dean feels like he might throw up, but he swallows it back and bites his tongue. He’s supposed to stay quiet, can’t say anything until Sam is completely done, but he can’t stop himself from nodding in agreement. No, Dean didn’t deserve that, not at all.

“I should have told you about what dad said, too. I had no reason to keep that from you, I just – it made me so angry. I used it as an excuse to get out of Kansas rather than helping you out of a bad situation. I’ll never forgive myself for that. Never.”

Dean seriously wants to hurl the box of tissues at Sam’s stupid, backstabbing face. They’re in a room full of fucking strangers for chrissakes, and that is definitely not something that should be discussed within earshot of anyone who isn’t family. Bobby tenses up beside him as well, undoubtedly trying to regain control over his anger. When Bobby found out about that particular plot twist in the Winchester legacy, it took damn near a week to get him to stop screaming at John’s headstone. He had been mad at Dean, too, for never opening up or confessing about the lies John had been feeding him since toddlerhood.

Of course, it’s not like Dean knew they were lies until Sam decided to enlighten them on the subject. Needless to say, there had been a lot of fury and rage flying around since Sam’s return, a lot of tears and fights and struggles, but he can honestly say there had been plenty of healing, too.

Sam flips open the book and thumbs through the pages, settling on one toward the end. “I had to read this book for class, and I didn’t like it very much. There were parts in here that felt a little too close to home, like the author had been inside my head somehow and knew what it was like. This guy went through something unbelievable, was pushed to such intense extremes, but he made his way out alive. He felt…weighed down, I guess, by his father’s weakness. I could relate to that, I think. I remember thinking how wonderful it would be if dad would just die already so we wouldn’t have to suffer anymore, so we could be free. But…it wasn’t until you showed up at my apartment that I finally understood the ending, Dean. It wasn’t until you made me see who I had become that I realized I needed help.”

Suddenly, the tissues don’t seem so useless. Dean’s not crying, and he sure the fuck isn’t going to, but the thought is tempting.

“ _One day I was able to get up, after gathering all my strength. I wanted to see myself in the mirror hanging on the opposite wall. I had not seen myself since the ghetto_ ,” Sam reads, his voice shaking and soft, “ _From the depths of the mirror, a corpse gazed back at me. The look in his eyes, as they stared into mine, has never left me_.”

Bobby reaches down then, pinching a corner of the tissue and pulling one up to his face. His eyes are watery and red, and his breathing hitches over small, invisible lumps of shock.

“Dean…when you showed up, you made me see what I was really doing. You held a mirror up to my face, and for the first time in years I could see the damage I had been doing to myself. Not just with the drugs, but even before that. I was always so angry and toxic, yelling at you and dad all the time. I’ll never forget the look on your face when I said I figured you were already dead. I am so, so sorry.”

He doesn’t reach for a tissue, he’s not pathetic and he’s definitely not ashamed, but a tear does manage to break away from the thresholds of his lids and trail down over his cheek. Dean’s tears are traitorous, giving him away to the foreign crowd of people who shouldn’t be able to witness this act of weakness.

“I know that what the author went through was so much worse, so much different than my own experiences, but when I read that final line, it just hit me. I thought of you, Dean, and everything you’ve ever done to protect me and to keep our family together. I thought of all the things you had to go through that I can’t even imagine, and then I just left you to deal with dad alone. I have you to thank for everything; I wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for you. I know I’ve fucked up a lot, but I’m going to get better, Dean. I’m going to get better and we’ll be real brothers again, I promise.”

Dean closes his eyes and hides behind the false wall of his hand. He wasn’t supposed to cry, wasn’t supposed to get emotional over some stupid meeting about feelings, but Sam’s words buried themselves into Dean’s core and keep needling him with insistence. It kills him that Sam thinks he’s not a real brother, that Sam thinks he has to live up to a certain standard to be family. It’s been the hardest year of Dean’s life, hands down, but _family_ surpasses all of that. Family is non-negotiable, dammit, and Sam can’t get out of it just because he has an addiction.

There’s a shift that Dean doesn’t catch since he’s effectively closed himself off from the rest of the room, and now it’s Bobby’s turn to speak. He grumbles for a moment about something under his breath, shifting his weight and grabbing another tissue. “It’s gonna be just fine, son. Wouldn’t do it if you weren’t worth it, got it? I, uh…I love you kid, and you’re just gonna have to deal with that,” Bobby explains, the smile returning to his choked up voice.

Sam huffs a small, humble laugh, sniffling and playing around with the book in his hands to look busy or occupied. Bobby taps Dean on the shoulder, nudging him into action.

He darts a glare at Bobby, embarrassed to show off his own red face and turncoat tears, but sits up straighter and chances a glance at Sam.

His brother is crying, not audibly, but there’s no doubt that he’s feeling the same weight of emotion they’re all blanketed under.

Dean doesn’t know what to say.

“You’re my brother no matter what you do, okay? So stop with that ‘real brother’ nonsense,” Dean starts, trying not to be defensive about it, ignoring the way Sam flinches under the words. He takes a deep breath, searching his brain for something beautiful or profound to say, but he comes up empty. “Life sucks, Sam. You and I might know that better than most, but it doesn’t matter. Life is hard and long and miserable, and sometimes we fuck up. Sometimes we fuck up really bad, but there’s nothing you can do that’ll ever make me change my mind about the brother thing. We’re real brothers whether you like it or not, whether you’re _sober_ or not, and if I have to I’ll still be saving your gargantuan ass when we’re eighty years old and crippled. Don’t think I won’t beat you with your own walker, Sam. As far as I’m concerned, it’s one of the few perks of the golden years.”

Sam laughs for a few seconds before it dissolves into muffled cries. Amelia pulls him into a tight hug and the circle of people start clapping. Dean wants to get out of the room as quickly as possible, wants to free himself of all the eyes staring into him until he can breathe again, but then Bobby’s arms are wrapped around him and they’re hugging, too. It’s nothing short of a Lifetime Network movie and if Bobby doesn’t let go soon, they might both grow a pair of matching vaginas and sync their cycles.

Another pair of arms envelopes them both, and there’s really only one person with a wingspan long enough to do so.

“Love you guys,” Sam whispers, and that’s it. Dean can’t hold it back anymore.

He rises from the chair and pulls Sam in as tightly as he can, burying his face in Sam’s shirt and making a weak attempt at hiding his tears. He hates feeling this vulnerable and delicate, hates that his little brother is so much taller that Dean’s head fits perfectly against his shoulder, and he especially hates that there are random strangers walking past and patting him on the shoulder.

“Sam,” Becky chirps, tapping on them both and capturing his little brother’s attention, “you’re free to go, if you’d like. You don’t have to be back until tomorrow, so you can go spend some time with your family.”

“Thanks, Becky,” Sam smiles, loosening his grip on Dean and taking a step back. He wipes the tears away with the back of his hand and waits for Dean to regain his composure.

Dean kind of wants to tell everyone to go fuck themselves, he’s had enough for one day as it is, but he keeps those thoughts to himself as he gives Becky a generous wink and thanks her. Bobby gives Sam a final hug and excuses himself, claiming to have an appointment of some kind that he has to get to right away, but the redness of his face and the spilling tears give him away.

“Cas would like to see you, if you think you’re up for it,” Dean offers, huffing out a long, overdue breath.

“Yeah man, that sounds awesome,” Sam agrees, giving Dean’s back a firm pat. It’s miles from the tearful hugs they just exchanged, but it’s comfortable, expected. It’s par for the course for the Winchester boys, as far as Dean is concerned.

҉     ҉     ҉ 

“I wish dad could have been there,” Sam says, breaking the silence.

D’yer Mak’er drones on in the background as they drive towards Dean’s place through unseasonably warm April weather. Dean chooses to focus on that rather than acknowledge what Sam had said, simply because there’s no reasonable reply that can be made.

Sam probably just doesn’t know what he’s saying. John? That Winchester? He would have never gone, would have never made Sam feel any better and definitely wouldn’t have supported him. Dean tries to think of reasons why his little brother would express such a thing – any reason, really – but he can’t come up with one. Instead, he chooses to redirect the conversation in a more sneaky, subtle way. He wants Sam to be in a good mood, wants everyone to feel comfortable in Dean’s home considering what happened the last time (and he does _not_ want to punch his brother in the face again) so he says, “you know, you could always talk to him, if you wanted. I can take you to where he’s buried. I bet mom misses you, too.”

Sam considers that for a moment, dragging a heavy hand through his hair. “Yeah, maybe. I just…I hate that my last words to him were angry ones. I hate that he died thinking I hated him, you know?”

Yeah, Dean knows exactly what his brother means. He hates it too, knowing that the last time their father was conscious, he was probably thinking about what an asshole his oldest son was, how stupid and reckless and selfish Dean must have been to light that damn cigarette.

He can’t hate himself too much, though. If he had never lit that smoke, John would have never left the house. Dean would have never got his brother back.

He wouldn’t have ended up with Cas, either.

It’s a disturbing way to think about it, how death was a necessary part of ascension in this particular life story, but he guesses it all evened out in the end. He has his brother, sober for the time being and working toward health and happiness. He has Cas, too, which is more than Dean ever could have imagined for himself. He misses his father every day, still wrestles with that oppressive guilt, but sometimes he thinks the trade-off was worth it.

Most of the time, he prefers not to think about.

“Just let me know, Sam. I can take you to them whenever you’re ready.”

“Yeah,” Sam says again, staring out the window at the passing trees, “not yet, but soon. When I graduate, I think.”

It’s a two hour drive back to Lawrence, but he and Sam manage to make it the entire way without any more tears or heartfelt hugs. They arrive at Bobby’s garage first, simply because that’s where Cas said he would be and Dean figured he’d be a good boyfriend and give his man a ride home, too. When they pull up outside, Sam sighs.

The last time Sam was here, it wasn’t good. Dean is reluctant to bring his little brother here again, but part of recovery is getting used to the real world and facing your past and your demons, so he figures it won’t be a big deal. Sam doesn’t say anything, he just gets out of the car and shrugs off his jacket. It’s somewhere around seventy degrees, so Dean does the same and leads the way inside.

Cas doesn’t usually spend his time at the garage, but every once in a while he’ll show up with some home-cooked food and spoil everyone. Charlie started making requests, and Bobby did too – but Dean had to put a stop to that. He was starting to get a little jealous, and jealousy is not something Dean has ever learned to handle with grace. He wonders if that’s what’s going on now, if Cas stopped by the garage to bring everyone some edible motivation since both Bobby and Dean had to take the day off.

Sam is slow to enter, timid almost, so Dean gives him a playful punch on the shoulder to loosen him up. Sam throws Dean a classic bitch face but follows him through the door, sticking close to his heels.

Charlie sees them immediately, beaming like a Lite-Brite and bouncing in their direction with a little too much enthusiasm. She collides into Dean full force, hugging the life out of him for a moment before letting go and doing the same to Sam. Dean brushes himself off, feeling way too hugged-out for one day, then smooths a hand over his hair. He looks around for Cas, his eyes darting around the mostly empty garage before looking back to Charlie, waiting for explanation.

Sam awkwardly pats Charlie’s back, unsure of what else to do. He’s not used to Charlie being so touchy feely, doesn’t know how to handle that kind of affection yet after everything he’s put their circle of friends through, but he doesn’t shove her away so that’s a sign of progress. Charlie must sense Sam’s discomfort because she eases off of him with him a cheery smile, grabbing Dean’s hand in her own and dragging him toward the back door.

“Where’s Cas?” Dean asks, confused and a little discomfited by his absence, “he said he was here, did he leave already?”

Dean isn’t used to questioning Charlie’s motives, doesn’t normally protest when she clings to him or grabs him and drags him somewhere, but when combined with Cas’ mysterious absence, he gets the sense that they’re up to something; up to no good.

The last time he got this eerie sense, Charlie had tricked him and managed to corner him into talking about his feelings. It’s true that Dean just had one fucking hell of an experience, just went through the damn ringer and came out feeling like a well-used sponge, but the absolute last thing in the world he can handle right now is another one of Charlie’s inquisitions. He outweighs her by an easy hundred pounds, stands more than full head taller than her, and yet somehow he finds himself still being dragged across the garage and through the back door like he’s some kind of Raggedy-Ann doll.

Charlie never replies. Half of Dean wonders why he ever expected her to.

They’re out the back and thrust into the open space, Sam lagging behind with a bit more apprehension and skepticism than Dean can afford. He’s used to being dragged around by Charlie, used to her preferring the element of surprise over a fair explanation, but Sam still has some leeway to make in that particular area. Sam doesn’t handle surprises well, can’t take being left in the dark the way most people probably can, but he takes this stroll in stride and even offers a small laugh when they find Cas outside, standing beside a tarp-covered car.

“Hey babe,” Dean says, pretending to be in full control of his heart as he stands with some distance between them, crossing his arms over his shoulders, “What, uh…whatchya got under the tarp?”

Cas laughs, his eyes crinkling in that perfect way that goes straight to Dean’s heart and mind and dick all at once. Sam stands gawkily beside him, narrowing his eyes and kicking the toes of his boots into the dirt. Dean feels torn – on one hand, he’s happier than hell to see his man standing and smiling in the salvage yard, clearly one step ahead of them all, but on the other his heart aches for his little brother, aches over the fact that the last time Sam and Cas saw each other, Dean had to punch Sam in his stupid moose face and kick him out. Sam is undoubtedly thinking about that evening right now, wondering how it’s possible that Cas is even willing to be in his presence after what he did, but then Cas clears his throat and Dean can’t focus on anything else.

“I have a surprise for you,” Cas intones, licking his lips. Jesus _fuck_ , even after all this time, that little motion still has the power to drive Dean wild. “Well, two surprises for you, Dean, but under the tarp is a gift for you both.”

Dean doesn’t even have the presence of mind to focus on the fact that there’s an additional surprise just for himself, preferably later when they’re alone and naked, because he’s both too curious about what’s under the tarp and too surprised that Cas is willing to do something nice for Sam after what happened. He’s glad for it, though, because Sam needs love and support more than he needs to be reminded of all the wrong he’s done. He could kiss the smirk off Cas’ face right now, could strip him down and take him in the back of whatever vehicle is hiding beneath the tarp, but he exercises extreme patience and bites his tongue.

Cas clutches at a corner of the tarp and yanks it away, revealing the hideous paint job Charlie had done on Cas’ precious Z16. There is its, the perfect matching shade to Dean’s green eyes, staring back at him like a taunt or a fucking tease, and Dean has no idea what to make of it.

Is he giving the car to Sam? Because, no, Dean’s not okay with that.

“Uh…Cas?” Dean chances, looking between him and Sam, doing what he can to avoid the ugly green monstrosity before them, “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

Cas tilts his head for a moment, looking at Dean inquisitively like he doesn’t understand what he’s talking about. Maybe he doesn’t, though. For all Dean knows, Cas could be planning on blowing the thing up and Dean merely spoke too soon.

Sam shifts his weight to his other leg and folds his arms as well, clearly feeling defensive about whatever thoughts are running through his head. Dean wants to reach out to reassure him that everything is going to be okay, but he doesn’t. It’s been a long road of recovery for Dean too, and bearing Sam’s burdens would only be a setback. He trusts Cas unequivocally, so there’s really no need to do so anyway.

“I know the two of you had a long day today,” Cas starts, scratching at the back of his neck and staring at the ground, “and I know that Winchesters usually feel better after hitting something, so I thought the two of you could unwind with a little controlled violence.”

It’s then that Dean notices the two crowbars leaning against one of the wheels, and he’s blindsided by an old memory that leaves him flushed and excited.

“Perhaps this ought to be tradition,” Cas jokes, grabbing the crowbars and bringing them over, handing one to both Dean and Sam, “a celebration as well as releasing some steam. Sam, we are so proud of your progress, and Dean…” Cas trails off for a moment, stepping a little closer and winking, “you just look good when you’re smashing things.”

“You mean…uh, I get to fuck up this hideous vehicle?” Sam asks, looking toward Dean rather than Cas. Dean nods in his brother’s direction, unable to tear his gaze away from the beautiful blue eyes staring back into his.

Dean was so unbelievably stressed today, pushed to the furthest of his limits like a planet hurdling toward the edge of abyss, and this is literally the greatest gift he could have asked for, the best way to perk up his spirits. He captures Cas’ mouth with his own, his hands cupping the sides of his lover’s face as he licks his way past Cas’ lips. Dean can’t seem to think about anything else, doesn’t care that Sam is boorishly standing beside them and clearing his throat. Cas is the single greatest human being to ever exist and Dean is hell-bent on proving that point right fucking now.

He’s not sure how long they kiss for, he doesn’t count the seconds as much as he counts the little moans slipping from Cas’ needy, parted lips, but it’s not until the crash of metal on metal startles them that they take a step back from each other. They wipe their mouths on the back of their hands, neither commenting on how effortlessly wet that kiss happened to be, but Dean manages to squeak in a final peck to Cas’ cheek before tightening his grip on the crowbar and getting to work.

Sam has made decent progress on the rear windshield, shattering the glass into a million spider-like webs and taking a few heady whacks at the trunk. Sam is smiling, broad and enormous like the rest of him, and it’s such a beautiful relief to see. Cas was right. Winchester boys need a regular dose of man-on-car violence to stay sane.

Dean takes the opposite side, smashing the front windshield in only three targeted hits, crying out in victory when the curved end of the crowbar breaks through and takes a few hefty shards of glass with it. He lets all of the pain and anger bleed through his muscles and into every swing, lets the past and the present and the future melt away as he hits home run after home run.

Every few minutes, Sam yells out something about Ruby, something about Stanford or Jessica or rehab, personalizing each strike with a vendetta or memory. It doesn’t take long for Dean to follow suit, calling out the names of every asshole who ever wronged him, of every one night stand he fucked to punish himself or the countless times he allowed Benny to use him.

Without Dean’s intention, without his awareness, his cries slowly devolve into screams about John.

His focus is solely on the hood, landing strike after strike on the dented metal like some kind of miner as he curses his father with every breath. _Fuck you, dad_ , he thinks, fury seeping through his blanched fingertips into the crowbar, _you lying piece of shit. Rot in hell, bastard._

Dean lets it all out then, though he’s not aware he’s actually yelling his thoughts out loud for all to hear. He condemns his father for everything he’d done to them, revokes any sympathy or unjust patience he ever felt for the man and swears him to eternal hellfire. He blames John for Sam’s addiction, blames him for all the hardship and heartache he’s ever felt, and doesn’t stop until he’s breathless and weak and shaking.

By the time Dean returns to his mind, when he drops the crowbar and takes a moment to look around, Sam is already done and standing off the side, wiping his brow. Cas and Charlie are both sitting in fold-out chairs, patiently waiting for Dean to finish, but Charlie had the balls to bring out a bowl of popcorn. She tosses a kernel in Dean’s direction, but he wasn’t paying attention enough to realize she had done it until the piece of popcorn was settled at his feet and covered in dirt. She sighs, tossing another one, and this time Dean darts forward and catches it in his mouth. Charlie claps, Cas’ lips part around an aroused breath, and Sam scoffs.

It’s not until later, after Dean and Sam both spent an hour cleaning up the mess they had made so Bobby wouldn’t be pissed, that Sam pulls Dean aside and says, “It’s not dad’s fault that I’m an addict.”

Dean doesn’t know what to say to that, doesn’t even know how to process the fact that Sam is taking responsibility for his own actions. “Yeah,” he replies, uncertain, wary of Sam’s insistence.

“I’m not saying he wasn’t a bad father, because we both know he was,” Sam clarifies, keeping his voice low, “but I made my own choices, Dean. Hate him all you want, hate him for everything he put us through, but my addiction is a tally mark that needs to stay on my side, not his.”

Dean doesn’t want to admit it, but Sam’s right. Bad parenting doesn’t equal a life of suffering and addiction, doesn’t explain why Sam was sober up until he left for California and separated himself from the family, but he still can’t rationally put all of the blame on his little brother. He was so smart, so full of potential, it hurts to think that Sam’s life was tossed away by mere choice or happenstance.

He’s right, though, completely and indisputably. John was many things, was a terrible father and a liar and a coward, but he didn’t hold Sam down and force that first needle into his arm.

“I hear you,” Dean says, conceding the point. He gives Sam a half hug, using only one arm because the other is in too much pain, and together they go back into the garage where Cas and Charlie are waiting for them.

҉     ҉     ҉    

“God, I missed you,” Dean says, stripping out of his heavy jacket and unbuttoning his jeans. Cas is already bare and waiting for him in their bed, thumbing through an old book that must be one of his favorites. Half the pages are dog-eared and the cover is weathered, but Cas holds it with such extreme care that it must be something special to him.

“You were only gone for a day,” Cas sighs, smiling fondly at him, “not much different than us going to work.”

Dean huffs at that, because there is obviously a difference that Cas is missing. “Except for the fact that I get to see you during lunch, and pick you up for work. Call me sentimental, but knowing I can stop by and see you anytime I want makes it a lot easier. I wish you could have come to Wichita today, at least.”

Cas sets the book down on his nightstand, double checking to make sure the bookmark is in place. “I wish I could have, but I don’t want to risk my job so soon. Besides, my students deserve better than that awful substitute. I can’t stand him,” Cas sighs, his legs shifting around under the blanket.

“Crowley?” Dean asks, not sure if he’s remembering the name right. Cas had complained about him quite a few times in recent months, especially after the Christmas holiday. “I thought you didn’t have to deal with him anymore?”

“I don’t, not directly,” Cas confirms, rubbing his eyes, “but he’s such an ass. I don’t want to subject my students to him unless absolutely necessary.”

Dean finishes undressing, leaving on his boxers and crawling over the top of the bed. Cas smiles, forgetting about his coworker, reaching out to pull Dean into his arms. Cas is under the covers, but he pulls Dean on top of him and lets his hands trail over the plane of Dean’s back, his fingertips playing along the line of the elastic band just above the crease of his ass. “Love you,” Cas whispers, leaving a line of kisses over Dean’s neck and ear.

“Love you too,” Dean replies, taking a deep breath. He lets himself be kissed, laying motionlessly along the top of their thick, warm blanket, making little breathy noises every time Cas gets bold and uses a hint of teeth. “So what’s the other surprise?”

Cas stops, almost abruptly, and it makes Dean a little nervous. He looks up and meets Cas’ worried, anxious eyes. It sends a familiar jolt of panic through Dean’s spine, a reaction he’s slowly learning to control and subdue, especially when it comes to the man he loves. Cas has never given him a reason to fear, but habit and instinct are hard bitches to bite back.

“We’ve been together a long time,” Cas says, running soft fingers through Dean’s hair, “and we’re committed to forever, right?”

Dean wants to laugh, because it’s the most ridiculous question that has ever come from between those gorgeous, pouty lips. “Duh,” he jokes, burrowing his nose into Cas’ neck, “like I’d ever let anyone else have you.”

Cas chuckles, still trembling slightly through another deep breath, “I was thinking…well, I talked to Charlie today while you were gone.”

Dean waits, not wanting to redirect Cas any further than he already has. He gives Cas a gentle squeeze in the silence, encouraging him to continue. He’s nervous, not quite sure what Cas is getting at or what on earth he would have to talk to Charlie about, but he keeps his qualms well hidden and bites the inside of his cheek to stay quiet.

“Charlie…she, uh…” Cas tries, failing to finish his sentence. Dean has to completely ignore the worried cricket chirping violently in his chest, worried that Cas is about to say something life-changing and horrible, but he relies instead on the thread of trust they’ve braided over the last nine months and waits patiently, kissing Cas’ ear.

“She agreed to be a surrogate, for whenever we decide to have a baby,” Cas finally blurts out, and Dean’s heart stutters. “She even agreed to give us half the child’s DNA, if we so desired. Charlie was quite excited about it, actually. I’m not familiar with the process, but she went into vulgar detail about only needing one of us to ‘jizz’ in a cup, and that she’d handle the rest,” Cas says, suddenly going completely still and tensing up.

Dean knows what that means – he’s learned a lot about Cas’ body language, knows that when Cas goes still it’s due to fear. He’s bracing himself for impact, trying to keep himself rock solid and impervious to pain and rejection, but Dean can barely spare a moment’s thought about it before his brain goes into hyper drive.

“You really want to have a kid with me?” Dean asks, perking his head up, unable to hide the bashful smile creeping across his face. “I mean, uh, I know we talked about it a couple times, but I figured you were just being nice, or impossibly patient.”

Dean’s heart is beating so quickly that for a moment, he honestly worries that’s it’s going to flutter out of his chest and into the air, betraying his attempt to stay cool and level headed. Cas sits up straighter, keeping Dean’s head perched perfectly on his shoulder, then lifts a hand to cup Dean’s chin and tilts his head until they’re looking into each other’s eyes.

“You’re the only person I want to have children with, and I am more than ready,” Cas says, his voice strong and steady and sure, “I love you, Dean Winchester. I love you, and I want us to start a family together. It doesn’t have to be now, but whenever you decide it’s something you want, I’ll be ready and waiting.”

Dean feels like his brain short-circuits, feels like every nerve ending on his body flairs up and becomes hyper-sensitive, and it takes all of his willpower not to shove their mouths together and suck the hesitant breath from between his lips. “And so will Charlie, apparently,” Cas adds, smirking at his own little jest, and that’s it. Dean can’t take it anymore.

He surges forward and kisses Cas until he’s breathless, thanking every god that could ever possibly exist for bringing Cas into his life and letting Dean keep him. He forgets about all the misery, all the setbacks; forgets about Sam sleeping in the guest room, about the gut-wrenching meeting today and the refused, completed crib still waiting for a baby in the garage. He forgets about everything that isn’t Cas and the way their bodies work so perfectly together, focusing solely on his incomparable lover and their future children.

“I’m ready,” Dean says, breaking their lips apart for just a second.

And he is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am going to write time-stamps for this fic that will cover both the nine months between this chapter and the last, and their lives in the future. (I left some things open so I can write about them in the time-stamps - hope that's okay!)
> 
> Thank you guys again, so so so so much. I can hardly breathe with how excited I am that this fic is finally finished after all this time. You guys have been amazing and kept me going when I felt like giving up. You have my eternal gratitude.


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